#you cycle through. so it's a sort of repeating pattern that you make look random by starting at different places in the list

[daily-xisuma]

[047] Applied my version of Doom's partial invisibility fuzz effect and an accidental offshoot I created in the process, heehee :-)

[raleighcarrera]

falling

platinum | raleigh carrera x mc (cadence dorian)

a little while ago i posted about the idea of a soulmate au where the first words raleigh & cadence say to each other are tattooed on them their whole lives, and this... is that. (for @platinumweekend ❤️)

tags: @choicesarehard ; @empressazura; @emomoustache ; @natesewell ; @zigtheeortega ; @pixeljazzy ; @brycemaloliver ; @grigori-girl ; @dulceghernandez ; @bitchloveskcbaseball ; @withbeautyandrage 

~10.5k words | T

i.

the words appear in looping script on his thirteenth birthday, right on time. they curve along the inside of his bicep, innocently punctuated. what’s your name?

“you got lucky,” one of his older cousins tells him, later, when everyone in his family comes by for cake and to ooh and aah over his new tattoo, “you’ll be able to hide that with a shirt or a jacket easily.”

but raleigh sleeps shirtless every night for the next two years, even when it’s cold, so that the words are the last thing he sees with his head pillowed on his arm before he falls asleep, dreaming of the nameless, faceless person who will one day say them, wondering what their voice might sound like when they do.

ii.

she has a more difficult go of it.

being a thirteen year old girl would be miserable enough without the added pressure of the words that practically feel broadcast across her forehead, most of the time. everyone at school teases her constantly and ruthlessly: say something funny, cadence. go on. tell us a joke!

so it’s difficult not to resent the two words scrawled lazily across her collarbone and the person attached to them, especially in the mornings before school when she’s angrily rearranging her neckline and jewelry in the mirror while the bus idles outside.

very funny. she isn’t, really. she’s plenty of things -- determined and passionate and sensitive, definitely, but... no one’s ever found her particularly funny, before.

and no one seems to understand just how much the expectation of having to be funny, one day, is weighing on her, not even her parents, when she finally works up the courage to squeak out, “but how am i supposed to know what i should say?”

her mom laughs indulgently, like she’s already said something funny. her stomach sinks further.

“oh, sweetheart,” she tells her, “don’t worry, it won’t matter. you just will.”

iii.

people ask him about it. a lot.

it gets difficult to keep it a secret as things change around him, but raleigh’s careful to avoid slip-ups and paparazzi photos and he doesn’t say a word about it in interviews, even when he’s asked directly. he’s never seen without short sleeves on, at the very least, and he doesn’t even tell blair and cameron about it.

he sort of wishes he had, though, because as his life turns upside down and he adapts to a new country with a new set of rules and an industry that makes his head spin most of the time it starts to feel more and more confusing, those three words -- what’s your name?

everywhere he goes, thousands of girls blocking the street scream it at him. so how is it possible that whoever’s waiting to meet him doesn’t already know it?

and what does that mean for how the rest of his life is going to turn out? 

what if all of this -- the fame and the money and the notoriety -- is fleeting, and he’s only a few short years from being completely washed up and irrelevant? what if the day he’s meant to meet his person is so far away that he’ll be completely out of the spotlight, by then, with sunset skatepark playing reunion tours and him having spent most of his life alone?

it’s a lot of pressure, for someone who’s already working their way through such a serious adjustment, and most of the time it’s dizzying, thinking about the fact that there’s someone out there who’s supposed to be perfect for him, when everyone he meets seems determined to forget every word they know other than yes, so they can suck up to him as much as possible.

his teenage years fly by in a whirlwind of mistakes and regrets. there’s things he would’ve never dreamed would come his way, like world tours and more money than he can count and so many girls who know everything about him before they even sit down to dinner, but there’s more than that, too.

there’s all the ways the industry weakens his trust until it’s gone, all the people who try to use him for what he can do for them, all the times he stumbles until he finally learns to distance himself by cultivating a persona, by leaning into all the expectations of raleigh carrera and creating something so outlandish it doesn’t hurt as much when disaster follows him around because it’s supposed to.

he watches everything that surrounds him turn fake and plastic and puts his energy only into his music, coasting on the rest. the days are less exciting than when he first joined the band at fifteen; he’s a solo artist, now, and most of the time, he’s just trying to get through.

but chaos continues to follow him and eventually his notoriety is inescapable. his first solo album is self-titled and he somehow manages to get a trademark on the word raleigh, as if the name is now more his than anything that ever belonged to the state of north carolina, and part of him sort of expects the words stamped on his arm to change, once he hits one-hundred million followers on his social channels.

they never do, though, and when he’s alone, and the veneer he’s built up for everyone else fades away, he can’t help but to be fascinated by this person who just wants an answer to the question no one else would ever dare ask him.

iv.

college isn’t exactly the fresh start she was hoping it’d be.

she was a loser in high school and things don’t get much better for her even now that she’s with ‘her people’ at a performing arts university she can barely afford, even with two part-time jobs. 

shane is across the country at a proper state school with parties and a social life and lots of friends who aren’t her, and she’s failing her improv class, proving that she isn’t actually very funny at all. 

boys continue to not notice her and patrons in bars continue to turn away from her one-woman performance, her old acoustic guitar the only constant in a life that feels utterly, unbelievably pointless, most of the time.

it’s like she’s drifting through the days, putting her time in at college in the hopes that it’ll fortify her for what’s next -- her big break, the discovery that’ll get her out of that shitty small town she’s been trying to escape her entire life. she writes hundreds of songs about how lost she feels and hates every single one, dreaming of a time when things might be different and she doesn’t have to second-guess every single one of her decisions.

she doesn’t have much of a love life and tries not to think about that, either.

the person on the other side of those two words stuck on her collarbone is probably looking for someone self-confident, who knows who they are and is comfortable with that. they’re probably expecting to meet someone who has their life together, who, at the very least, has a plan.

they’re probably not expecting a talentless nobody screwup like her, someone who tries as hard as she can yet never seems to make anything work.

things don’t turn around after graduation, either. sure, she manages to find an apartment in a building that’s nice enough and uses the last of her savings on the deposit and trying to furnish it, but it’s only a few weeks of trying and failing to secure a regular paying gig performing before she’s back at smoothie star again, begging for her old job back.

and there’s nothing that makes her feel more like a failure than working the same shifts she had in high school. 

as she hums along to the radio on a random tuesday afternoon when the store is dead and there’s nothing to blend, she wonders what mr.-or-mrs. very funny would think if they walked in and saw her here -- twenty-three years old and flat broke, with a dead-end job and a one-bedroom apartment all she has to show for her very expensive and very useless bachelor’s degree.

that, and a notebook full of half-finished songs about relationships she could only ever dream about and an escape from the miserable small town she lives in that feels farther away with every day that passes.

she can’t imagine they’d be very impressed.

v.

raleigh’s life gets monotonous very quickly. the music takes a backseat to the scandals and for a while there’s a predictable pattern of cause trouble, clean up image, rinse and repeat.

there are girls in between the cycles to help him pass the time. some he likes well enough and some he despises, but for the most part his management gives their recommendations and he agrees and makes awkward conversation for an hour or two over brunch until it’s time to go trash something again.

things get particularly bad after one minor cruise ship hijacking incident. 

but in his defense, no one ever told him that breaking into the harbor and joy riding was a first-degree felony, worsened by the fact that he’d just so happened to crash the boat into the pier while he was trying to dock it. 

at least he’d been sober.

though a monumental fuck up like this felt sort of inevitable; everyone who knew him probably figured it was only a matter of time before he went too far. how could he not when he was always chasing the next high?

still, the image rehab tour that follows is far from what he’d call enjoyable. he has to cut off all his hair and play nice at industry parties and waste time standing around being seen at charity events he winds up just cutting checks for instead of helping out at.

on top of the miserable community service comes the pr bullshit his team so loves -- dozens of tv appearances back-to-back where he’s herded around all day like cattle, in and out of green rooms with crappy coffee and bad catering.

he has no idea that showing up to be a judge on one in a million is going to change his life. hungover and running late, he barely even makes it to the taping of the semi-finals, slinking inside the concert hall in middle-of-nowhere, usa with a headache and some choice words for whoever thought this was the best way to clean up his image.

fortunately, raleigh manages to make his way inside virtually unnoticed. his phone is buzzing angrily in his pocket -- undoubtedly his manager trying to encourage him to hair and makeup or some other absurdity -- but he ignores it in favor of ducking back behind the line near the auditorium doors, only barely catching the last few words of some catty confrontation between two contestants as he goes.

as one of the girls stomps away, he sees the other’s shoulders slump from behind. “guess i’m not making any friends,” she mutters.

it’s clearly said to no one -- not even to herself, really -- yet for some reason, he can’t stop himself from responding. “where i come from, that’s a good thing.”

the girl’s shoulders straighten, but she still doesn’t turn around. “i’m not trying to succeed at the cost of others.”

raleigh smirks, leaning back against the wall beside his guitar case. “you do realize you’re at a competition show, right?”

“of course, but...” her hair ruffles with what sounds like a huff. she’s still not facing him, staring off at where the other girl she’d been talking to had run away. “that doesn’t mean i’m not rooting for everyone here to share their music with the world.”

“what a sweet sentiment,” raleigh drawls sarcastically, almost feeling a little bad for her and her naivety. this poor girl is going to be eaten alive. “it won’t last.”

her body tenses, her shoulders tightening again. he can almost see smoke start to pour from her ears before she spins suddenly on her heel to face him. 

whatever sharp retort had been on the tip of her tongue gets swallowed with a blink as soon as their eyes meet. something like electricity crackles in the space between them, strengthening the invisible pull he’d felt when he first stopped behind her. instead, she only asks, “what’s your name?”

vi.

the man in front of her snorts. “very funny.”

a smile tugs at her lips. “very funny, that’s a weird name.” this is unlike her -- the quick comeback, the flirting. usually being face-to-face with a guy as good looking as the one talking to her now made her want to wither away and die, but something about the stranger standing before her sets her instantly at ease. “so, are you gonna tell me, or not?”

now it’s his turn to blink at her. a hand lifts to rub at his jaw. “huh. you really don’t know who i am, do you?”

cadence’s eyes narrow as she assess him. there is something vaguely familiar about that crooked grin, she’s sure of it. 

at the very least, it’s an excuse to stare at him, and she does, moving her eyes slowly over the tattoos poking out over his jacket collar, the line of stubble on his sharp jaw, the glint of mischief in his eyes.

her helpless gaping is interrupted by a sudden shrill scream. “oh. my. god! is that raleigh carrera?!”

everything clicks at once. as a wild group of girls corner him, she realizes where she’s seen that smile before -- on just about every tabloid cover known to man, plastered all over convenience stores and the internet with headlines about his latest bender. in fact, she’s pretty sure he was just in the news for something similar -- crashing a yacht or something else ridiculous like that, something that only someone as rich as raleigh carrera could have accomplished. 

then she realizes what he’d said to her, as soon as she’d turned to look him in the eyes. very funny. 

her heart stops. all she can do is stare wide-eyed at him as he dispels the girls clamoring for a selfie, snapping back to the present when he waves one large hand in front of her face. 

“sorry -- what?”

“i said, what’s your name? it only seems fair, now that you know mine, and all.”

“cadence,” she answers numbly, “i’m -- um, i’m used to your hair being longer.”

“cadence,” raleigh repeats, smiling at her, “so you do know who i am.”

“what do the magazines call you again? r&b’s time bomb? puerto rico’s hottest export? you’re kind of notorious.” she blinks at him, then admits, “i’ve heard your songs.”

“seen the tabloid covers too, eh?” the expression on his face suggests he’s almost proud of them.

this is surreal.

“didn’t you crash a yacht or something?” she asks, brain whirring into overdrive as she tries to process what’s happening. he doesn’t seem to have realized it yet, which gives her a moment to gather her thoughts, something that feels impossible when she can’t push the way he’d scoffed very funny out of her mind. 

“or something. insurance paid out a couple million in property damage, but...” raleigh trails off, brow suddenly furrowing. he stares at her silently for a beat too long, then slowly turns a dull red. “hey, what’d you say earlier, again?”

cadence wets her dry lips, trying not to panic. stay calm, she silently coaches herself. raleigh carrera is not your long-awaited soulmate and you are not doing this in line to audition for one in a million. “i said -- what’s your name? and then you said...”

oh god, this is happening. her teeth dig into her bottom lip as she fidgets with the neckline of her top, tugging it to the side so raleigh can see the two words on her collarbone. 

“very funny,” he mutters, “oh, jesus fucking christ. you can’t be serious.”

“me?” she demands, “you’re the one who --”

“next up,” calls a voice suddenly, cutting sharply through their argument, “contestant #9,276.”

her blood runs cold as she realizes that’s the number she’s wearing pinned to her shirt. she can feel herself start to sweat; how the fuck is she supposed to perform like this? she wants to throw up. why did this have to happen to her now? this was her shot -- her one fucking chance --

“hey, easy.” there’s suddenly two strong hands on either side of her shoulders, and she startles as raleigh stares at her from up close, closer than he was just a moment ago. “relax, okay? you’re gonna be fine. you’ve got this.”

“but --” she starts, then realizes her mind is racing too quickly to even articulate what she wants to say. she settles for shaking her head, eyes wide and panicked. “i can’t just -- oh my god, i’m going to throw up.”

“here,” raleigh directs, “take my guitar. prince gave it to me as a birthday present.”

prince?! she mouths hysterically to herself, as he flips the latch on his case open and pulls out the instrument. “how is this supposed to help me?”

“just trust me,” he says, giving her a gentle nudge towards the auditorium, “now go.”

she does, stumbling forward with the most expensive piece of equipment she’s ever held in her hands in her life alongside her, drawing in a deep breath as she makes her way onto the stage.

she can do this.

everything else will have to come after.

vii.

the thing is -- she’s talented. exceptionally so. 

he can tell she’s a little nervous, but maybe that’s just because he’s used to looking out for that sort of thing; he could probably recognize it more easily than the average person would. it probably has nothing to do with who they are, how he notices the nuances in her body language...

her belt is impressive. her voice is stunning, clear and uniquely melodic. his guitar looks spectacular in her hands, and cadence plays it like she’s been practicing on it her entire life. 

he tries his best to look nonchalant, feet kicked up onto the seat in front of him, but when she locks eyes with him from the stage he knows he hasn’t succeeded. raleigh’s breath catches, and he stares back at her, transfixed by the way her dainty hands cradle the neck of the guitar and strum the strings, how her lips purse around the long, emotional high note at the end of the song’s chorus.

she’s really very pretty. 

he’d probably be lying to himself if he said it doesn’t make him a little bit jealous and uncomfortable, watching how she and avery fawn over each other when she’s finished. he’s probably a much better suited match for her, clean cut and pristine as he is. 

he wonders if she’s disappointed that it’s him -- that it’s now, when she’s clearly on the cusp of something great all on her own.

it’s a lot to think about, and so he dips out of the auditorium before she finishes up, rushing outside with his heart pounding. it’s not until he’s halfway through the crumpled pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket that raleigh starts to relax even an iota, and of course that’s when the stage door he’d left propped swings open wide and cadence’s sneakers hit the asphalt beside his boots.

“uh, you can’t just leave me with this thing,” she says, apropos of nothing, and as he stares at her he realizes she’s talking about his guitar, which she’s holding in one hand like it’s a dead fish. “this costs more than everything in my apartment combined, i’m sure.”

he shakes his head at her, laughing as his fingers flick ash from the cigarette he’s holding. “no way -- you should keep it. you two looked perfect together.”

she hesitates, looking down at the instrument again. he can see in her eyes that she’s torn; it’s obvious she knows the right thing to do is to refuse a generous gift from a stranger, but she wants to keep it, and already his mind is racing as he considers what else he could give her that would excite her like that -- a private flight, a tour of his penthouse, a million dollars. 

“are you sure?” cadence asks, without looking at him, and the hesitancy in her voice makes him realize how unsure she really is. she’s the one who’s wondering if he’s disappointed in her.

he licks his suddenly dry lips and drops what’s left of his cigarette to the ground, finding he doesn’t actually need the rest of it, anymore. “positive.”

viii.

they don’t actually get to spend a lot of time together, while she’s filming. she has to focus and it seems like she’s always busy, somehow -- not that she sees raleigh very often in the first place.

the days are spent rehearsing with avery and cramming in as much mentoring as possible, and when she can pull herself away from fiona’s lessons on image to get home at a reasonable hour she collapses into bed pretty much immediately, out like a light from the whirlwind of the day and hardly even aware enough to dream.

but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t think about him. she does, especially on the rare occasions she manages to catch a glimpse of raleigh walking around in the studio, or on one memorable evening she stays late in the auditorium to bang on the piano keys of the beautiful, enviable baby grand on set and startles to find him leaning in the doorway, watching her play.

it’s all a blur and wildly difficult to process; just when she thinks she has a grip on things she remembers the private moments she’s had with raleigh and her emotions tumble to pieces again as she lets the weight of the implications of what’s going on between them crush her completely.

one moment sticks out on her as being particularly worrisome, insofar as how it bodes for the rest of her life. 

it feels like something significant from the moment raleigh offers to help her warm up; they’ve hardly had a moment alone together in days and she still has absolutely no idea how she’s supposed to talk to him or what she should say, but for some reason the conversation flows easily and she hardly has to think about the (no doubt incredibly stupid-sounding) words coming out of her mouth.

“you’re going to kill it,” raleigh says finally, once they’ve worked through all the exercises in his arsenal, “you really don’t need my help.”

never in her wildest dreams did she ever imagine someone like him would say something like that to her. “you think?”

“i know it,” he answers confidently, shrugging his shoulders like it’s that simple. “and you should, too.”

there’s a moment of silence where they just stand there staring at each other, ignoring the restless murmuring of the crowd outside that’s waiting for him to slip into his seat at the judge’s table. she’s effortlessly lost in raleigh’s eyes, so fixated on the intensity of his gaze that she doesn’t realize he’s leaning in closer until it’s too late.

“insurance policy,” he mutters, before he kisses her, hands cupping her face gently. 

for a split second, she stands frozen, shocked totally still. then, her brain reboots enough to propel her into motion, and cadence gets with the program enough to wind her arms around raleigh’s waist and pull him closer and kiss him back, until her heart’s lurched up into the throat she’d just been warming up, pounding relentlessly.

they make out until the roar of the crowd is deafening -- until it’s impossible not to acknowledge it any longer. 

of course raleigh’s a life-ruiningly good kisser. why wouldn’t he be? why should any of this be easy?

it’s only a few simple touches, but raleigh’s mouth leaves her dizzy and lightheaded when she’s supposed to be concentrating on performing, and, independently of the way she’s blinking at him in stupid shock, cadence already knows she’ll never be able to kiss anyone else ever again without thinking about him.

“i have to get out there,” she gasps between desperate presses of their lips against each other, grasping ineffectively at his clothes while his fingers tug her hair out of shape.

“be late,” he suggests, “it always works for me.” 

but she’s not him. she’s not like him -- they have nothing in common. they come from different worlds; they’re two completely opposite people.

and yet every minute with raleigh is like coming up for air after being underwater for years, like the knots of guilt and shame and awkward embarrassment she’s carried around for her entire life without understanding why she has them are slowly starting to undo themselves, unlaced by his careful fingers.

they make it out there. eventually.

before she knows it, confetti’s raining down from the ceiling and falling all over her, and she locks eyes with raleigh from across the room to find his lips pulled into a genuinely affectionate grin -- lips that she’d just kissed for the first time a fucking hour ago and, seriously, what is her life now -- his eyes bright and excited. 

things just keep getting weirder and weirder, but the way they’re beaming at each other like idiots in a room full of thousands, broadcast on national television, too, makes her think things might be pretty great, too.

ix.

it sort of takes them a long time to getting around to talking about it -- the soulmate thing.

it’s not that he doesn’t try. he does, but she’s got a lot going on, these days: a big move and a new record deal and days filled with songwriting and nights out being seen. he’s still on his image cleanup tour, while she’s at it, so his fake smile stays fixed on his face throughout another boring week of restaurant openings and charity events and talkshow appearances before he finally gets the chance to spend some time with her again.

they text here and there, but nothing pans out until the stars align and they manage to slip out of the back door of a nightclub unnoticed together after a night of dancing too close for the comfort of her publicist while avery and the others cause a commotion at the front entrance to distract the press.

she goes back to his penthouse with him. he can’t remember the last time he brought a girl back to his apartment just to talk, and especially not one who spent the better part of the evening in a sparkly minidress grinding against him. 

but here they are.

“so -- how’s the city treating you?” raleigh asks, pouring them both a drink he doesn’t want from the bar cart in the corner of the room for something to do with his hands.

cadence shrugs from where she’s perched on the edge of his sofa, tugging at the hem of her dress. “good, i guess. it’s honestly all kind of overwhelming.”

“yeah,” he nods, passing her one of the glasses in his hands and taking a seat on the ottoman in front of her, close enough to see her face in perfect clarity but still maintaining a distance that he hopes is respectful. “i know what you mean. when i first came here after joining sunset skatepark everything felt so... huge.”

“totally,” cadence answers quickly, nodding in a way that’s almost aggressive. “i mean, there’s so much pressure to deliver an album right away, but i want it to be perfect, and the studio is so different from, like, writing songs in my room at home, and i... i guess i feel kind of homesick, but -- not for my hometown. i hated that place.” there’s hesitancy in her gaze when she asks, “do you know what i mean?”

“yeah,” raleigh says again stupidly, because the truth is -- he knows exactly what she means. cadence has just articulated something he could never quite put into words better than he’d even thought the sentiments to himself. “it’s like... nostalgia for something you don’t even want.”

“exactly,” she breathes emphatically, and then they’re kissing again, and she’s in his lap on the ottoman and he definitely brought her here to talk, for sure, but is it really so terrible if they get a little sidetracked on the way to their destination?

well -- they wind up making out for hours. so, there’s that.

it’s not part of the plan but it’s a hell of a side quest, memorizing the shape and feel of her with his hands while her lips pull every last bit of breath from his lungs, until he’s lightheaded and dizzy in a way no other girl has ever made him, before. it’s to the point where when he finally finds it within himself to push her away, he’s uncharacteristically nervous -- something that’s never happened to him before, not even on the night he lost his virginity.

“i really did ask you over to talk,” he says, voice hoarse.

cadence licks her lips and then beams at him, eyes sparkling. “i know.” she shuffles delicately back onto the couch, lingering in his lap for only a moment before pulling away entirely. he stuffs his hands under his thighs to stop himself from reaching out for her again. “sorry i haven’t been around more.”

“you don’t have to apologize.” raleigh shakes his head. “i should be apologizing to you, i feel like... i should be the one who’s around, to help you with all of this. or at least -- i want to be. i don’t know if i’ll be any good at it.” 

he blinks, surprised by his own honesty. he hadn’t meant to say all of that, but the words came up before he was cognizant of them and now they’re out there, and there’s no taking them back -- especially with the way she’s looking at him, all soft and sweet and happy.

“well, you don’t have to be good at it,” cadence murmurs, reaching out for his wrists and tugging his hands free so she can interlock their fingers effortlessly. they fit together like puzzle pieces. “you just have to be you.”

x.

her budding relationship with one of the biggest names in r&b doesn’t have much time to bud at all before it’s rudely plucked from the plant and stepped on.

she finds herself blinking at fiona in confusion as the words take some time to process. “you want me to do what?”

xi.

raleigh balks at his manager, shaking his head emphatically. “no,” he spits out, “absolutely not.”

xii.

“cadence, it’s not a big deal,” fiona tells her, very nearly rolling her eyes. “everyone does it. you go on a few dates, play up the relationship for some photos, social media eats it up -- boom, you’re a star.”

“i don’t know,” she answers hesitantly, mind drifting back to the photographers that have already been following her around, screaming about avery when she ducks into the car with him. things with raleigh are... new, and complicated, and do they really need to add public scrutiny into the mix as well? “i just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“it’s a great idea,” fiona sighs, shaking her head. “all our focus groups agree. the label thinks it’s best, what with your single taking so long to put out.” she opens her mouth to protest -- it’s not like she’s dragging her feet on purpose -- but barely has a second to get a word out before fiona continues, “besides, raleigh does this all the time.”

her teeth bite at her bottom lip uncertainly. “he does?”

“of course. chantal clearwater? she was a pictagram model when they met, and now she’s opening shows at paris fashion week. it’s just business.”

it’s not, though. it could never be just anything, for reasons no one else knows about except the two of them, for reasons she’ll never tell. “well... what did raleigh say about it?”

xiii.

“i said no, frank.” he’s annoyed, now, and his manager knows it, raleigh’s arms folded across his chest and his eyes set into a glare. “n. o. no.”

“and i hear you, but is it really the end of the world? she’s exactly what we’re going for, and i know you already get along --”

“which is exactly why i don’t want to do this. so pick someone else. anyone else.” he’s not going to let his label turn her into one of the girls he has to be seen with for fake photos and mutually beneficial positive press. 

for so many years, he’s watched people fake feelings and use each other -- willingly participated in the using himself, too, more times than he can count. he never cared about any of it before.

but being with cadence doesn’t feel fake, and he doesn’t ever want it to. and he knows that if he agrees to this, everything he enjoys about spending time with her will disappear in favor of the ugly, plastic decay that’s eaten away at so many of his personal and professional relationships before. organic, genuine time with her will become strolls near celebrity hotspots, angling just right to help the cameras get the perfect shot. he’ll show up to support her at shows because her publicist called him, and their time together will become some manufactured narrative meant to push their labels’ agenda, until six months down the line they don’t even recognize themselves or what might’ve been if they’d done things a different way.

“look, there isn’t anyone else. her team’s already agreed to it, and i’ve got brunch set up for sunday. all you have to do is play nice for two fucking months, raleigh. is that so impossible for you?”

yes. already he feels a deep-seated desire to go somewhere and break something, to tear through the flower beds in central park with his motorcycle and wink at the cameras when they catch up to him.

instead, he storms out of the office he’s in, and into the sunlight, tugging the hood on his jacket up and melting into the crowd on the corner so he can be as anonymous as possible when he picks up his phone and calls cadence.

“hey raleigh,” she chirps as soon as she picks up, sounding far too cheerful for someone who’s likely had an equally as miserable early morning meeting on a friday. “guessing you heard the news?”

“can’t i just call you to say hi?” he grumbles, ducking his head as he strolls through the intersection with the mob of people crowded along fifth ave, turning down the next side street so he’s alone again, with no one following, just like that. 

“well, you can,” she teases, and some of the anger he’s carrying around with him fades, dissipating into nothing and evaporating like smoke. “but you’re not.”

“no, i’m not,” he agrees with a sigh, shaking his head. “you sound surprisingly cool with it, though.”

“should i not be?” cadence laughs, but he can detect a thread of nervousness in her tone. “i already want to hang out with you. we have the same friends and work in the same industry. we’re... probably going to go on dates anyway, so... how hard can this be?”

god. she has absolutely no idea. part of him thinks it’d be cruel to burst her bubble, but he should warn her, shouldn’t he? 

she sounds so optimistic about it, though. it’s hard to feel anything but hopeful when her voice turns up like that at the end. in the back of his mind, there’s a voice that’s not his suggesting maybe this time, things will be different. 

surely he knows better than to think something as ridiculous as that, though, right? 

“well, i guess it’ll be interesting, at least,” he muses, slowing his steps by the entrance to the subway. 

he’s going to lose his signal just as soon as he heads underground, and he’s not quite ready for that, yet.

xiv.

time with raleigh flies by. 

it doesn’t feel like they’re fake-dating -- they do everything she hopes he’d want to do with her anyway, like go out to eat at fancy restaurants and take walks through the park and bounce melodies for songs off of each other, facetiming late at night from their apartments or on the days he visits her and micah in the studio. 

he’s by her side for the release of her first single, and her first music video, and through it all, raleigh plays the role of the doting partner perfectly, holding her purse on the red carpet and feeding her paella at a strategically-placed outdoor table and fetching her coffee order when she’s too busy to stop writing for even just five minutes.

in the blink of an eye, it’s time to put out her album -- just like that. 

raleigh’s perfectly charming through that process, too. he shows up on time, says all the right things, and keeps a drink in her hand all evening long, so that when she’s finally done making the rounds and can enjoy herself after the entertainment and the networking and the schmoozing she’s giggly and touchy, doing her best to steal him away from the crowd.

“what were your other relationships like?” she asks, half expecting him to brush her off, though he’s always indulged her before. they’ve never really gotten this personal. “fake or... otherwise.”

“they’ve all been fake,” he shrugs, “and i can say with confidence that you’re the best one i’ve ever had.”

“really?” cadence smiles, chin propped up on her hand as she leans over the bar. “be honest. what did you really think, when you realized it was me?”

“what?” he asks, pushing the empty rocks glass in his hands around on the bar top, “you mean this thing?” he gestures at his arm, covered in expensive, custom tom ford, and the tattoo laying innocently beneath it.

“uh huh,” she confirms, “‘cause i was totally like oh shit.”

raleigh laughs, loud and wild, the sound swallowed up by the noise of the party around them. no one nearby is paying them even an ounce of attention, and it’s fun, to be anonymous at her own party, invisible to everyone in the room except for him. “i can imagine. i wouldn’t want to be stuck with me either.”

cadence shakes her head -- that’s not what she’d meant. but before she can protest, he rolls his glass between his palms and thoughtfully continues, “i guess i was a little surprised. it felt like i’d been waiting forever to meet you, so part of me was like, fuck, we’re doing this now? and i never thought it’d be someone so...”

“boring?” she suggests, eyebrows arching when raleigh’s expression immediately twists into one of disagreement, his nose scrunching up with distaste.

“no,” he huffs, “so... good, i guess.” she stares at him as he reaches for one of the waiting tequila shots on the bar, pulling it away from the line he’d set up for the crowd he’d been with before she’d tugged him to the side to talk, leaving the drinks untouched. raleigh knocks the shot back -- no salt, no lime. he’s had twice as many drinks as she has, and she’s definitely feeling them -- she has no idea how he’s even still upright, no worse for wear other than a few slurred words here and there. “but you just are. it’s like every song i’ve ever written was about you, and i just didn’t know it yet.”

the noise of the party fades in favor of the pounding of her heart, loud like a kick drum in her ears. she bites her lip and stares at him, watching as raleigh shakes his head at himself, dazed. “you okay?” she asks quietly, leaning in a little across the bar. 

raleigh’s quiet for so long she has to wonder whether or not he actually heard her. just as she clears her throat and opens her mouth to repeat herself even louder, he nods, reaching across the bar and squeezing her hand before dragging her back over to the line of tequila shots waiting for them to enjoy.

the night is a blur after that, and there’s patches of the evening that are fuzzy in her memory the next morning, but she knows she’ll never forget the gentle kiss goodnight raleigh gives her when he helps her stumble into the car back to her apartment at dawn.

xv. 

things go really well, until they don’t. 

they have a blissful six months together with more fun than he’s ever had with anyone. slowly, he learns every single thing about cadence and returns her openness with honesty of his own -- honesty that feels strange and unfamiliar but weirdly thrilling, in a way, made easier every time one of his stories pulls a laugh or smile from her. 

it seems unnatural, having a honeymoon period that goes on for so long. in the entire time they’re dating, he doesn’t destroy a single thing -- doesn’t even want to, which is the weirdest part of it all. 

there are some moments that catch him completely off guard. more than a few times, he hardly even recognizes himself, she turns him into such a different person. 

he doesn’t hate it, though -- just the opposite, in fact. raleigh realizes he’s really starting to like the carefree, far from jaded person he is when he’s with her, though it only hits him for real when he’s watching her storm away from him on liberty island, eyes fixed on the angry sway of her hips.

he stews on it on the long ride back to his penthouse; the game had, admittedly, been starting to wear on him. but he’d gone along with it because it was supposed to benefit her -- he’d agreed to the stupid public breakup and following the rules and not seeing cadence in public for the foreseeable future because it was what she wanted, and -- frankly, it felt like a stupid fucking decision.

not that it lasts long. he starts texting her just as soon as he’s done washing electralite out of his hair and doesn’t make it more than twenty minutes when they first see each other again at the moda gala before he’s sneaking off with her, ducking under the velvet rope that demarcates the planetarium as ‘off limits’ with her hand tucked neatly in his.

“maybe this is better,” cadence muses between sips of her drink, her eyes on one of the stupid glass exhibits he couldn’t possibly care less about. “now we can just be together -- no pressure. our relationship is ours again.”

their relationship. is that what this is? they’ve spent a lot of time talking about who they are and what they like and don’t like, kissing and touching and holding hands. throughout it all, he’s done his best not to buy into the ‘soulmate’ bullshit too heavily, but over the last few months it’s been hard to deny that there’s a reason he was meant to meet her, that she’s been changing him from the inside out.

“what’s on your mind?” she asks, turning towards him with an open look of genuine curiosity on her face, like she really wants to know. 

“it’s nothing,” raleigh answers at first, reflexively, like he has so many times before. no one has ever really wanted to know. but cadence’s eyebrows arch, and she waits, patiently silent, and then the words tumble out of him. “it’s just that -- my whole life, i’ve watched other people use each other. so many people are just interested in the concept of celebrity status. so i played the game. never trusting anyone.” 

he shrugs. a hand lifts to rub his jaw, and he looks back to meet her gaze just in time to see the little smile playing at her lips, like she already knows what he’s about to say. “but it’s different, with you. you make me not want to be that person anymore. when i’m with you, it’s the only time i feel anything real.”

“raleigh,” she murmurs, her expression flickering before her face does something that cracks his chest wide open. her eyes go all shiny and sparkly and her cheeks crease with a grin, and the way she laughs is so ridiculously joyful the hand he has stuffed in his pocket curls into a fist to stop him from doing something stupid. “i feel the same way. i just... this whole thing, i know it doesn’t always -- work out, but... with you i really want it to. i’ve never felt this way before about anyone, and i think...” 

there’s a pause as her lips purse thoughtfully, and then she says the words that make it impossible for him to do anything but close the distance between them and kiss her over and over again: “i think even without this tattoo it’d be you, anytime, anywhere.”

xvi.

being raleigh carrera’s (real, confirmed, 100%-authentic) girlfriend feels almost too good to be true.

raleigh is... everything she never knew she wanted in a boyfriend, wrapped up into one tall, dark and handsome package, with a loud, goofy laugh and a deep, sexy voice that sends a shiver down her spine whenever his mouth so much as lingers near her ear for too long. 

it turns out that, despite their differing status in the industry and her initial assumptions that they came from two completely different worlds, they’re actually on the same page about pretty much everything. she finds that the pressure of the word she’d held in such high regard for so long -- soulmate -- disappears entirely where he’s concerned because being with raleigh is just fun. 

there’s motorcycle rides and boat trips and hours up late talking about everything and nothing; facetime calls with his mom and shopping trips where the stores are kept open late for them so they can shop alone, in an empty boutique, like every teen movie she’d ever watched growing up.

there’s late nights in the studio and either of their apartments where they both noodle around on their guitars and improvise half-hearted duets, content to just work in the same orbit as each other for as long as possible.

raleigh’s texting one night on the couch in her living room when she plucks out the melody to who i’ll be on her old acoustic, sitting on the floor in front of the tv.

he looks up before the first verse is over. “what’s that one? it sounds good.”

“oh -- just a song i wrote in college,” cadence hums, already downplaying it as she lifts her shoulder in a shrug. “i got stuck, never finished it. ellis made me sell the progress for some other writer to finish.”

he frowns, pushing up onto his elbow. his phone is tossed carelessly somewhere among the couch cushions. “why?”

“because i was taking too long with the odyssey,” she sighs. “it was kind of my only option. it’s weird, though -- thinking about someone singing something that was so personal to me.”

“play me what you had so far,” he says, and so she does, hesitating for only a second before strumming the chords, singing the lines she had slowly. 

when she’s done, she looks up to find that raleigh’s slid to the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees as he leans in as close as he can get with the coffee table in his way. “okay -- that was beautiful. you should finish it.”

she shakes her head, setting her guitar down. “i can’t. they already sold it. and even if i wanted to... i don’t know how it ends.”

raleigh’s legs spread in invitation and she stands to walk around to the couch, slipping into his lap and leaning back against his chest. his hands are tender as he rubs them across her shoulders, sliding up her back before one lifts to brush a lock of hair back behind her ear, his pointer finger pushing her glasses up her nose affectionately. “maybe one day you can write something else with the same theme,” he suggests, and she tries her best to smile even though it feels like a dream lost, somehow -- a ridiculous thought, given that she pretty much has everything she ever wanted, but the way she feels all the same.

“maybe,” she sighs, the kiss he drops to her forehead a bandaid on a wound that’s been doing its best to heal for what feels like her entire life.

xvii.

he’s never brought a date to the vinyls before. 

there’s been plenty of after parties he’s stumbled out of with a girl on his arm, sure, but cadence is the first person to sit by his side during the ceremony, and he’s surprised by how much he likes having her next to him.

then again, he’s self aware enough to realize he’d like being pretty much anywhere, with her.

still -- the awards are a lot less boring with her around to kiss and stroke his hair and make snide commentary about the rest of the attendees with, and when she squeezes his hand goodbye to rush backstage and get ready for her performance he misses her instantly.

what happens next makes him endlessly regretful of the fact that he’s not backstage with her.

he rushes around just as soon as he can, pushing his way through security and frantically scrambling technical assistants to find her exactly where he thought he might, between ellis knight and fiona, looking lost with her head in her hands.

she seems equal parts broken and pissed in a way that tugs at his heartstrings and makes him a little bit proud. raleigh shoves through the crowd to get to her and slips an arm around her waist. he’s only caught the tail end of the conversation they’re all having, but he knows enough to know that “you can’t bench her. that’s bull.”

ultimately, though, it doesn’t matter how much they stomp their feet. she’s under contract, their hands are tied, and he walks away seething at the unfairness of it all, this shitty industry that’s turned on her when all she ever wanted to do was make music.

she cries in the car back to her apartment to pack her things. there’s no way he’s letting her go home to iowa or idaho or indiana without him, and he barks at his team over the phone until they agree to move his appearances around so he can make that happen, his free hand clasped tightly in hers until he physically has to let her go so she can unlock her front door with trembling fingers.

cadence tosses clothes haphazardly onto the bed and he silently and precisely moves to folds each piece for her, until she gives up and sinks down onto the edge of the mattress, defeated. 

wide eyes filled with tears lock onto his, and he watches her bottom lip wobble before she says, “you really don’t have to do this. come with me, i mean. i know i messed up, and -- you have so much else going on. i don’t expect you to --”

“i’m coming,” he states firmly, setting the sweatpants in his hand down and stepping closer to her, sitting beside cadence on her bed. “what happened tonight was fucked up, cadence -- it shouldn’t have happened at all. i’m not going to let you go through this alone.”

“but --”

“but nothing,” he says, and before the words have even left his mouth she’s falling into his arms with a soft sound of gratitude, mashing her face into his chest as she sniffles.

“thank you,” cadence mumbles, sounding so unsure of herself it makes him wonder if she’s ever had anyone show up for her when it mattered most before, or if that’s yet another thing they unfortunately have in common. 

xviii.

raleigh tries his best to cheer her up, but it’s still hard, feeling like she’s let the entire world down. her fans. herself.

there’s something embarrassing about showing raleigh her apartment back home and the person she was before she met him -- all the places she felt most uncertain and where she experienced some her worst self-doubt, the room that still has the smoothie star apron hung up in the closet.

but there’s also something exciting, about being totally off the grid with him. no one knows they’re here and there’s no paparazzi waiting to snap photos of them -- especially given the fact that they don’t leave her building for the first three days she spends moping around while raleigh orders all the takeout he can get his hands on.

it sort of reminds her of when they first met, and there was nothing to do but learn about each other, though now there’s a familiarity to him she relies on, a unique raleigh-ness that feels more like home than this shitty apartment ever did.

still, she struggles, and the weight of the world doesn’t let up until zadie shows up with her fanmail and avery does his best to make her smile with a beach trip and some fancy new toys and a day in the sun with a drink in her hand.

eventually it’s just her and raleigh again, out by the fire after everyone else has gone to bed. her stomach is full of s’mores and her cheeks hurt from smiling for the first time in weeks, and it’s a shock when she realizes she feels content, even after everything that’s happened -- almost as though things will all work out for the better no matter what happens next.

“oh my god,” she gasps suddenly, cutting off what raleigh had been saying as her eyes light up and she hastens to stand. “i’ve gotta -- i need to -- oh my god.”

just like that, she knows how her song ends.

recording it is a process, but raleigh calls in some favors and gets them studio time and agrees to be featured on the song even though she knows he’s still working through a sound change that he feels unsure about.

but it means a lot to her, having him crammed in the booth at her side, singing into the same mic. they sound almost unbelievably good together, too, raleigh’s harmonies on the words that finally resolve that lost feeling she’s been harboring her entire life making something deep within her wriggle up happily, wagging its proverbial tail.

the fact that raleigh remains by her side throughout the entire fight with her label, the long nights of despair agonizing over what her next move is going to be and even the moment where they decide to break into indio, of all places, means more to her than she can ever say. she feels markedly less nervous about the entire thing every time she turns her head to the side and sees him, right there next to her -- right where he’s been this entire time -- smiling encouragingly and squeezing her hand hard in his.

though it’s not until they’re up at the top of the ferris wheel that she realizes how precious what she has really is. it’s not until he looks her dead in the eye and says, with that same soft earnestness he’s awarded her since they first met at the one in a million auditions that feel quite literally like a hundred years ago, “cadence, everything you want is on the other side of fear. and i want you to have everything you want,” that she truly understands that’s what between them is special and rare.

not because of any tattoos, or any preconceived destiny. not because of who they are and their status and the fact that people take pictures of them when they’re out in public together.

but because of this -- all these real moments of genuine connection they’ve been fortunate enough to share since fate threw them into each other’s paths.

“raleigh, i love you.” the words are said easily, not a moment’s hesitation behind them. 

just before she crosses over in the cart to kiss him until they’re both breathless, raleigh gifts her the brightest smile he has and says, “i love you, too.”

xix.

the night is a blur from the moment he first takes the stage with his old bandmates to when he finally finds himself alone with cadence in a rundown old motel a few miles out from the festival in the desert.

he can’t recall ever being so happy, so of course he doesn’t remember every agonizing detail of the evening, though he does know he doesn’t feel the need to have a single beer with cadence around, twirling barefoot in the grass and giggling when she leads him up to the room they’ve borrowed.

afterwards, when they’re sitting on the roof together in the blanket they dragged off the bed, he reflects on the wild year they’ve had with her in his arms, fingertips tracing the delicate very funny scrawled across cadence’s collarbone.

he feels... free. completely liberated. like there’s absolutely nothing and no one that can get to him, now, like he’s untouchable, like he doesn’t care about a single thing that happens after today and how perfect things have been. 

“i think i’m actually freer than i’ve ever been,” he muses, where his lips are pressed into her hair, “i can take my sound in any direction i want.”

“i’m so happy for you, raleigh,” cadence returns genuinely, tilting her head back so he can see her upside-down smile. 

his arms tighten around her. “i’m so excited for what you’re gonna be doing, too. i’m excited for us.”

“yeah,” she sighs, “who knows what’s next, right? now that ellis let me out of my deal...”

he can hear the thread of worry undercutting the words. he shakes his head, hands rubbing up and down her arms. “you can worry about that tomorrow. for tonight, just enjoy the comeback. what you did out there was amazing.”

“what we did,” she corrects, and he blinks up the stars as he realizes she’s right -- they’re a we now. he’s part of a we again, after being on his own for so long.

the phrases bounce around in his head, unfamiliar and foreign. me and my girlfriend, he thinks to himself, cadence and i. we’re going to be late. we’ll be away that weekend. we just started watching that show. we, we, we. 

“what we did was amazing,” raleigh amends, the words slow to come out but feeling right all the same. “whatever we do next will be amazing.”

“absolutely,” cadence confirms, with conviction, like it’s something she believes wholeheartedly.

and though he has no idea what to expect or what it might be, a large part of him is inclined to agree with her -- she’s been right about everything else so far.

xx.

one year later, she’s finishing a set in berlin, the last stop on a sprawling european tour that had taken she, avery, micah and raleigh across the continent for dozens of performances to sold-out crowds of thousands screaming her lyrics back to her. 

if her contract with overknight had been a dream come true, signing to wilshere records is heaven incarnate. cadence’s trip through the u.k. with her new label is proof enough, and the chance to meet new fans with new stories to share that she could connect with is one she’s taken to with enthusiasm, the experience made all the sweeter by the fact that her favorite people get to be by her side throughout it all.

berlin’s crowd is one of the best, and she fully expects to end the tour on a high note, head banging to the last few notes of ‘knockout’ before raleigh’s planned entrance for the last song of the night, so they can sing the duet that’s closed out every show they’ve had on the tour together. 

when he struts out with his guitar, waving and grinning at the crowd, she can’t stop herself from smiling stupidly at him, just like she does every time she sees him join her on stage, every time she realizes that this is their life, that this is something they do every night, now.

though her grin falters when raleigh pauses in front of his microphone and asks, “berlin, do you mind if i talk a little bit before i start the song? no? cool, because i’ve got an important question to ask.”

her eyes widen. cadence’s mouth drops open and doesn’t close throughout the entire speech raleigh gives her, even though thousands of people in the crowd are filming every moment of her gaping like an idiot, snapping close-ups of her shocked face.

the arena practically vibrates with screams when he drops to his knee, popping the box in his hand open so she can see the giant diamond ring nestled inside of it. 

“so?” raleigh asks, and cadence can just barely hear him in her in-ears with the way her heart is beating frantically up into her throat, as wild as the crowd’s raging around them and then some. “whaddya say, babe? will you marry me?”

as if the answer could ever be anything but yes. she nods, laughing as she launches herself into his arm for a kiss that’s too grand to be given on stage, though that’s hardly going to stop her -- not tonight, at least. tonight, she’s okay with the whole world watching their every move, just one more time.

“oh, i don’t know if it’s going to fit,” raleigh jokes as the ring slides easily onto her left hand, amping up the theatrics for the fans still watching them avidly, even up in the cheap seats.

cadence rolls her eyes playfully at him. “very funny,” she praises, and the grin he offers her in return is so loving -- so knowing, with the secret that only the two of them share and every weird piece of their history included in it -- that it takes everything she has to shove him away so they can perform instead of dragging him down to the floor to kiss him over and over again.

clumsily, she flubs a few notes of love who i’ll be on her guitar. from across the stage, between the bridge and the chorus, raleigh jeers, “someone hasn’t learned to play with the extra weight on their left hand, yet, i see,” and when she flips him off while belting out the last lines of the verse, his raucous laughter is all the harmony the final few bars of the song needs. 

[sophfic27]

Questions (Have You Ever Wanted to be a Fly on the Wall?)

Summary: By now, you probably know the drill (his name is Bill), on their tenth birthday, the first words a person’s soulmate will say to them appears somewhere on their body. The word "hello" is one of the most common phrases in the world, so when Roman ends up with it on his wrist he decides to get creative. Everyone he meets who greets him with a "hello" he asks them a question. And he'll keep doing this until it's on someone's arm. This is literally my first ever fanfiction that I've finished and posted, so here's hoping you like it.

Pairings: Prinxiety, Logicality (background-ish), Dukeceit (background)

Word Count: 2870

Warnings: One instance of an F bomb, I think that’s it, let me know if it’s not

Notes:  I got the idea to write this after scrolling through soulmate POVs on TikTok with my sister for fun. We discussed how one could solve the problem of having a really common phrase, and she said "I'd just ask weird questions, because I'm really good at that." So I decided to write this. Most of the questions Roman asks in this I stole from my sister, because, yes, she really does randomly ask these wackadoo questions unprompted. She's great. Enjoy.

Read on AO3

If anyone was going to describe Roman as anything, it was fanciful. Of course most kids were excited by the prospect of getting their soulmark and meeting their soulmate, but Roman had very big plans for how he was going to meet his soulmate. He grew up with Disney movies telling stories of soulmates and star-crossed lovers and found himself mesmerized by the power of soulmates. The lovely tale of the Little Mermaid, and Ariel trying to somehow convey to the prince that he was her soulmate when she had no voice. The story of Aladdin doing all he could to survive and be worthy of his princess soulmate. When he was eight, he saw Anastasia, a story of soulmates who met before their words appeared. When she lost her memory, she couldn’t have known the boy who saved her was her soulmate, and he knew but thought that she must have died until fate brought them together again. Roman was amazed. With only two years until his words appeared, he fantasized about all the ways he would meet and woo his soulmate, what unique phrase would change his life forever. Maybe he already knew his soulmate and just didn’t know it was them! Roman counted the days until he got his words with impatient anticipation.

Roman was younger than his twin, Remus by seventeen minutes exactly. So there they were, huddling on the bottom bunk with flashlights at 3:11 am only two minutes left until Remus is exactly 10 years old and he receives his soulmark. “It’s going to be something really lame, like ‘you’re annoying’ or something,” Roman insisted. Having grown up with Remus, he found it hard to think he could even have a soulmate, but they both knew he was just giving him a hard time. “Nuh-uh,” Remus squawked in a mocking tone. “Yuh-huh,” came Roman’s equally childish reply. “NUH-UH!” “Shut up, or Mom and Dad will yell at us again!” Roman socked his twin with a pillow. He tapped the screen of the tablet they had snuck into their room from the living room. 3:12:31. They’d been checking the time obsessively, but now there was only half a minute left. They exchanged a sort of giddy look as the clock ticked closer and closer. “10, 9, 8” Remus started to count as the time came upon them. Roman joined quickly, “7, 6, 5, 4.” “3.” “2.” “1.”

They watched as two words drew themselves onto Remus’s wrist: “Um, wow.” The twins blinked at the words for a minute, until Roman broke the silence, “nice going, doofus, you’re going to weird out your soulmate immediately.” “You don’t know that! Maybe it's a good ‘um, wow,’” Remus protested. “How would that be good? ‘Um, wow, you’re so handsome, ooooh,’” Roman made a mocking kissy-face and was promptly knocked over by another projectile pillow. He laughed, “face it, you’re a weirdo, ‘um, wow’ is not a good thing.” The door swung open with a whoosh and their mother stood there, staring at them. Roman covered the tablet with a pillow to hide the stolen device, and Remus scrambled off of the bunk. “I told you boys NOT to stay up like this,” Carla snapped. Her hair was up in curlers and she had hastily pulled a bathrobe over her pajamas. “But, Mama, our soulmates!” Roman whined. “Yeah, I got my words,” Remus waved his arm around even though the light was too dim for their mother to read the words and she was too tired to humor them. “That’s nice, Remus, but I told you, Papa and I have to work tomorrow, you can’t be keeping us up like this, I told you we’d look at your words in the morning,” she rubbed her eyes, still bleary from the sleep she wanted desperately to return to. “But it is morning!” Roman cried indignantly. Carla fixed her son with a pointed glare and he looked down and climbed under his sheets. Carla sighed, “thank you. Now, you can tell me what your words are in the morning when Papa is awake, but right now I need you, boys, to go to sleep, okay?” “Okay, Mama,” the twins replied in unison. Remus climbed back up to his bunk and got under his covers. Carla nodded and departed the room for her own, her slippers making light scuff sounds down the hall. As soon as the door clicked closed at the end of the hall, Remus poked his head over the edge of his bunk and looked down at his twin, “how much time is left?” he whispered. Roman uncovered the tablet and woke the screen, “ten minutes,” he whispered back. The next ten minutes crawled by painfully slow. Roman lost track of whatever his brother was saying as his thoughts turned to what his words would be. He was pulled out of his trance when Remus broke his silence to ask “how long?” again. This time, when Roman woke the tablet, he saw that it was 3:29:22, and he became overwhelmed by the fact that there was less than a minute left. He reported to his twin and went back to staring intently at the digital clock. Each second felt like an eternity, but they dragged him eagerly forward until- The grandfather clock down the hall chimed the half-hour, and Roman tugged his pajama sleeve down excitedly and turned the flashlight onto his wrist. There a beat of silence until, “so? What does it say?” Remus asked eagerly. Roman sighed, “it says ‘hello.’” Remus stayed quiet for a second, “that’s going to be hard to find,” he offered. Roman collapsed back into his pillow. “Well, I’m going to sleep. Night, bro,” Remus mumbled from above. “Night,” Roman murmured. He looked at the singular word again and switched off the flashlight. “Hello” was one of, if not the most common soulmark in the world, because it was the most common greeting, regardless of language. At least there was that, Roman considered, his soulmate probably spoke English. But that wasn’t helpful. Remus was right, it was going to be hard to find his soulmate. Roman sighed and turned over onto his side. Okay, thought Roman, then I’ll just have to get creative.

It was common practice to try to use unique and specific greetings when meeting someone for the first time to cheat destiny and ensure an easier time finding their soulmate, but with as common a phrase as “hello”, Roman had to scrap all of his fantasies of grand romantic gestures and fairy tale meetings in favor of a way to guarantee his soulmate would recognize him. The plan was simple, if he was talking first to someone new, he stated his name first and foremost. Anyone he approached first, he greeted with “my name is Roman, nice to meet you.” The part where he got creative was with anyone who approached him first by saying “hello.” “Hello!” chirped his friendly new classmate in sixth grade. “If you were an insect, how long would it take you to die?” Roman asked immediately. The girl stared at him before replying shyly, “I don’t… know?” “Darn.” He always made sure to explain his tactic after using it to avoid further alienating new acquaintances. And thus he continued this way with every new person he met, always with a new and random question.

“Hello.” “If you could time travel, who would you meet?” “…Abraham Lincoln.” “Okay.”

“Hello.” “If you could make a new type of snowman that wasn’t made of snow, what would it be made of?” “Uh. Oranges?” “Cool.”

“Hello.” “If a bat flew into your house speaking with the voice of a cartoon, but claiming to be your best friend, what would you do?” “…What?”

Sophomore year, Roman and Remus were fifteen years old. Remus had already met his soulmate, Janus, and naturally, “um, wow” had been a response to Remus weirding him out, in addition to the realization that Remus was his soulmate. Roman, on the other hand was still trying to find his soulmate with random questions, but to no avail. The second semester had begun and Roman’s physics class was changing seats. Roman collapsed into his new spot next to a boy he knew to be Patton, but with whom he had not actually talked yet. Patton was wearing a blue t-shirt with a repeating cat pattern across it. His honey-brown hair was lightly curled, and a pair of round glasses were balanced on his freckle-covered nose. He smiled warmly at Roman. The teacher finished giving his instructions and let the class go to meet their new partners and get to work on their assignments. And thus the cycle began anew. Patton turned to Roman with a grin, “hello!” Roman huffed slightly as he quickly summoned a new question, “what’s your favorite musical?” he asked in lieu of a real greeting. Patton stared at Roman for a beat before raising a hand to his chin thoughtfully, and Roman knew that the boy probably didn’t have his question on his wrist. “Mamma Mia,” he answered finally. “ABBA. Good choice,” Roman chuckled. Patton giggled back, “Why do you ask anyway?” Roman showed Patton his wrist, and he nodded wonderingly, “I get it, you’re trying to have a unique greeting, because yours is so common.” “Bingo,” Roman said, slightly relieved that he didn’t have to explain it all again. “I’m guessing you don’t have my phrase, right?” Patton’s hair bounced as he shook his head. He presented his own wrist, marked with the word “Salutations” in unusually crisp font. “Ooh, you have a fancy soulmate,” Roman said, “that, or they’re a nerd. I’ve never seen such a professional-looking font.” “Me neither,” Patton giggled again. “At least ‘salutations’ isn’t a very frequently used greeting.” Roman nodded, “yes, a nerd like that will be easy to spot,” Roman joked. “I’m Roman by the way,” he said, suddenly unsure if Patton knew who he was or not. “Patton!” he replied with a quirk of his head and a broad smile. “Nice to meet you,” he was aware of the teacher surveying the class to see who was working and quickly added, “maybe we should get started.” Patton nodded and they set to work reading instructions and becoming friends.

Half-way through the first semester of senior year, Patton introduced Roman to his recently discovered soulmate, Logan. Upon meeting him, Roman remarked that he was exactly the kind of nerd he had expected when he had seen Patton’s “salutations” soulmark. He then lamented that he was once again left surrounded with people who had soulmates when he didn’t, at which point Logan informed his that “statistically speaking, most people meet their soulmates in their twenties or thirties.” “Thanks, pocket-protector, but that’s barely comforting. I have the most common phrase in the English language,” Roman complained. “Actually, according to most studies performed in the last 20 years, the most common phrase currently is ‘hi,’” Logan corrected him with a push of his glasses. Roman stared at him in disbelief and Patton giggled at his side.

“I’m telling you Roman, he’s actually really nice,” Patton assured him as they walked down the path towards Roman’s house. Both boys were bundled up in coats, their hands stuffed firmly in pockets to protect against the biting winter wind. Roman had a Christmas party coming up in a few days, and Patton was trying to convince him to invite the fairly anti-social kid who never got of his emo phase, Virgil. In all honesty, Roman didn’t care if Virgil came or not, plenty of Remus’s friends, who he didn’t know, were going, but Patton was determined to make Roman and Virgil friends, and as it was, Roman didn’t think he had anything in common with the emo. “I’m sure he is, Pat, but…” he hesitated, searching for some way to appease his friend without giving in. “But what?” Patton pressed, meanwhile physically pressing against his shoulder. “But you get along with everyone, and everyone loves you. You can find something in common with anyone no matter what,” Roman stalled. Patton’s eyes bore into him. “I on the other hand, don’t think I have anything in common with Virgil. I mean, he’s all surly and dark, and I’m a theater kid straight out of High School Musical,” he gestured grandly before his hand quickly retreated to the warmth of his pocket again. “Have you ever even talked to the guy?” “Well, no, but-” “Then how do you know you have nothing in common?” Patton’s voice lilted. He always gave off the vibe of a dad trying to get his child to try a new food or something. Roman shot him a side-eyed look, and Patton continued, “you like Disney, right? Well, it just so happens Virgil is into Disney, too! See? There is something you have in common?” “Yeah, sure, but… I mean, who doesn’t like Disney?” Patton just shrugged. Roman was being stubborn, but Patton knew he’d practically won. “All I ask is you let me introduce you to him at the party, okay? Just let him say hello. You can even ask him one of your weird questions.” Patton waved a gloved hand vaguely. Roman was suddenly aware that he seemed to know something Roman didn’t, but he ignored the feeling in favor of a childish groan. “Fine, you can bring him to party and introduce him to me,” defeat dripped from his voice, and Patton clapped in delight and cheered as they arrived on the doorstep of the house.

Some pop rendition of Jingle Bells played through the house as Roman made his way to the snack table. The table was draped with a festive table cloth covered in reindeer and sleighs, and it featured an impressive array of cookies and cupcakes and other holiday-themed treats. Most claimed that Roman and Remus overdid the party thing, but in truth it was mostly Roman. Classmates and friends milled around dancing, eating, and chatting happily. Roman picked out a tree-shaped cookie that he had made and started to make his way into the living room when he heard someone call his name. Roman turned to see Patton dragging a boy toward him, a broad grin decorated his face and, as usual, outshone the blinking Christmas light necklace he was wearing. They met just to the side of the entryway into the living room. “I know you said you hadn’t met yet, so Roman, this is Virgil,” he gestured to the boy standing next to him. His dyed purple bangs draped just down to his eyes, and he was wearing a dark purple sweater in place of his usual patchwork hoodie. Virgil watched Patton carefully, only looking at Roman when introduced by name. Virgil gave a wave so slight, Roman would have missed it if it was any smaller. His low voice was soft, and yet carried easily over the din of the party, “hello.” “Have you ever wanted to be a fly on the wall?” Roman said. His response was automatic. Replying to “hello” with a question had become an unconscious habit after doing it for so many years. Virgil stared. That was a standard reaction to Roman, he had hardly registered the question that had come out of his mouth. Patton’s further widening smile, however, was not a standard reaction. Roman then realized that Virgil’s stare was different from others as well. His gray eyes shone with shock instead of the confusion Roman was accustomed to. Suddenly becoming uncomfortable with the silence, he said “… What?” “… I’ve always wanted to ask, and I mean this sincerely, what the fuck kind of greeting is that” Virgil said finally as he started to tug down his sleeve, revealing the words on his wrist. Roman’s face lit up with astonishment and excitement. “No, I’ve never wanted to be a fly on the wall, but thanks to you, I’ve thought about it bordering on obsessively for almost eight years.” Roman finally broke out of his trance. “Oh my god, I can’t believe it worked,” he exclaimed as Virgil stared quizzically at him. Roman showed him his own wrist and explained the logic behind his seemingly random question. Suddenly a thought occurred to him, and he whirled on Patton. “You knew about this, didn’t you?” He shrugged innocently. “I knew that Virgil had a weird question on his wrist and that you have a tendency to ask such questions,” He grinned slyly, “I couldn’t be certain, but it was a pretty fair bet.” “You’re a mad genius,” Virgil cocked his head at Patton. Patton smiled brightly again, “I don’t know what you mean, kiddo, I’m just helping out where I can.” Roman shook his head and laughed, “alright, Pat, I’m sorry I ever doubted you.” “That’s fine, Roman,” Patton clapped him on the shoulder, “I’ve got to go find Logan, so you guys get to know each other,” Patton waved as he stepped away. Roman and Virgil turned to face one another and stared at each other in silence for a few moments. Roman wracked his brain for what to do next, and all he could come up with was, “So… Disney?”

[voidsentprinces]

Got asked what Chainsawman is about and I...THATSALOADEDQUESTION!

I mean I could say its about a kid whose entire motive is to touch a boob and then later get laid. But GOD THAT ISN’T FUCKING EVEN HALF OF IT!

So meet Denji your shonen protagonist whose parents died before even the first chapter and has been raised without any sort of education or manners whatsoever. Told to do jobs for Loan Sharks who are part of the Yakuza to pay back the debt his parents owed them. One day he accidentally stumbles upon a dog...plush...with a chainsaw blade for a nose who is wounded. Nursing the animal back to life, he finds out the doggo is actually a demon and together the two of them bond and he goes picking up demon hunting jobs for the mob to also pay off his debt. Suddenly and out of left field he is ambushed by a demon who controls his debtcollects and murders him.

Dead.

The chainsaw demon then replaces Denji’s heart and he becomes the titular character. Killing the demon and his possessed zombie debtcollectors he is then picked up by Makima and Japan’s Demon Hunter Organization. During that time, he becomes an indentured servant to the Japanese Government. For the first time in Denji’s life, he doesn’t have to worry about paying off a debt or scrounging for food for him and Pochita (the Chainsaw Demon that is now his heart). He just has to survive every assignment he goes on with interesting and absolutely bizarre people. Befriending a Demon called Power who adores cats but doesn’t quite like humans so much. Roommating with his collague Aki.

Chainsawman is an oddity in that it just sort of climaxes at high volumes in with crazy ass fights before slowing down again. Taking its time to take in somber moments and have conversations with characters just reintroduced. But like Game of Thrones. Anyone and everyone with the exception Denji can be just killed off by the next event that leads to an explosion of action.

The story rushes along like a shonen anime where to writer seems to just want to get it over with. But it usually breaks into a pattern of hunting a demon, the entire current cast gets killed off somehow leaving Denji, Power, and Aki behind along with Makima, the unofficial demon hunting director and then the cycle repeats.

And it does this like several times. In fact half way through this becoming very road over time. It introduces to concept of the Gun Demon.

See Demons in this universe aren’t just your normal hellspawn. Their powers and heirarchy level is based on how many humans fear them. Thats how you get Bomb Demon, Fox Demon, Spider Demon, Zombie Demon, Darkness Demon, and of course Gun Demon. Who is responsible for everything Aki does and seems to be the final boss of the ordeal.

But then, again, SHIT. GOES. DOWN. and I won’t spoil the ending of the first arc of the series but...BOY....BOY....BOOOOY! The emotional depth this series suddenly explores is fucking flabbergasting.

Its like it suckers you into your run of the mill, shonen battle story. But then as soon as it knows its hooked you. It makes you look back on those simpler, halcyon days.

Like if you watching Pulp Fiction and then at random intervals they just spliced in the more quite moments from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

Chainsawman definitely isn’t for everyone, but I don’t regret reading it. It’s...weird. It starts out action first but as the first act closes it becomes more and more a horror experience mixed with an emotional rollercoaster.

Which is why I welcome the musical direction of Kensuke Ushio. Previous having done music for A Silent Voice and Devilman Crybaby.

From the Promotional Video alone, it feels like he’s bringing the synth almost chaoticness from Devilman Crybaby and Ping Pong but also the more quiet, bittersweet beats of A Silent Voice. Which is just the sort of direction this series needs in my opinion. Looking forward to it.

[mrsacklesevansmgk]

Cursed - Chapter 2: Adam

Cursed Series. Catch up here

All mistakes are my own, as this hasn't been reviewed by anyone.

You do not have permission to copy my work anywhere. This is an original story written by me.

“Yours is the light by which my spirit's born, yours is the darkness of my soul's return, you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.” ― E. E. Cummings

Sitting next to Lana in English this morning was a unique experience. I could tell she was watching me out of the corner of her eye, or sneakily through the strands of her hair. I frazzled her. I knew that much. But she frazzled me too. She’d steal glances at me, thinking I wouldn’t notice. And to be honest, if I were the average seventeen-year-old boy, I wouldn’t have. But I am anything but average or normal, so I noticed. Oh, if she only knew.

There was nothing about this girl that I wouldn’t notice.

I drank her in, every chance I got.

I know that sounds extreme, but just sitting next to her in class is something that I never thought would happen.

I intentionally leant a little bit closer to Lana and was rewarded with the colour in her cheeks flushing red and her pulse began to race a little bit. She dropped her pen and wiped her palms on her jeans then tried to hide her face behind her hair. I don’t know if she noticed me watching her, but I thought she was incredibly adorable at that moment. This hour would be one of the best hours of my life if it was spent in the presence of this amazing person. I was soaking in these moments, because I knew I would have to leave soon and switch off from the human world.

I let my mind wander back to the first time I had ever seen Lana. She was walking through the local mall with her hands in the pockets of an oversized hoodie, headphones in her ears and head down. She wasn’t watching where she was going and was constantly knocking into people. I watched as she made her way from shop to shop, stopping now and then to pick up random items. By the look on her face, she wanted to be anywhere but here. I left the mall that day thinking about the strange girl I had encountered but thinking, the way my life goes, I’d never see her again. Two weeks later while I was walking through the forest, a strange feeling came over me. I had this undeniable urge to walk to the stream I could hear in the distance. I’d never gone that far before, why did I feel compelled to now? I walked quickly but quietly towards the stream, coming out near a large oak tree. Across the river from me was the girl from the mall...leaning down washing her hands in the flowing water.. Except she wasn’t really washing her hands. She had her hands stretched out in front of her in the water and her eyes closed. It was like she was communicating with the stream. I felt like I was intruding so I silently backtracked and walked away. But for many nights since then I often found myself wondering why I had the sudden urge to go to the stream that I’d never been to before, and there she was.

That was about two months ago now. I’d moved to the area and had grown bored of doing the same thing every single day. I didn’t need to attend school, but I liked the idea of it. Interacting with every-day people, learning something new, even if just from a different perspective. And so, I was completely gobsmacked to look up and see her frowning down at me this morning. And I tried to play it cool and not let on that she frazzled me but boy was I frazzled. This wasn’t normal. The urge to go to the stream that day, the fact that of all the schools I could have gone to, I picked the one that she attended, and I also happened to be in a class with her.

My life was too strange to take that just as a coincidence. Coincidences didn’t happen in my world. But I also decided to take it as a sign. The universe was pushing Lana and I together for a reason and I didn’t need a reason to want to get to know Lana, but I took it as a sign anyway.

I came back to the present moment. I could sense Lana peeking at me through her hair. She thought she was so smart about it, that I wouldn’t notice. But I noticed. She really was a peculiar person. I got the vibe that she’d be perfectly content slinking about in the background, never the centre of attention. The way she dressed in oversized, baggy and ‘messy’ clothes tells me that she wants to hide away.

She was sitting incredibly still, only her hand moving as she scribbled patterns across the front of her folder. I couldn’t see what she was drawing, but I could tell it was a repetitive motion and she was going over and over it, pressing it in soft cardboard folder, making the lines darker and darker before moving on to repeat the cycle in a new spot, sometimes in a new clear space, sometimes overlapping the previous one.

I needed to talk to her. I knew that much. I had already tried, and she pretty much shut me down and zoned me out, which wasn’t hard considering she had music blasting through her headphones. She was doing her best to ignore me and I was doing my best to break down those walls, so, I was incredibly grateful when Mr Lord volunteered Lana to show me around because it meant she had to talk to me,or at least give me the time of day. Anything was better than being point blank ignored.

The bell rang, indicating the end of the first period. I packed up my books and grabbed out my class schedule to see where I needed to go next. I was hoping that Lana would be able to show me, or at least give me directions. We stood almost simultaneously, and we collided causing Lana to stumble back. I instinctively reached out to steady her and asked “Are you alright?” “Fine thanks, I’m just really clumsy” she said as a smile grew on my face. She pulled her backpack onto her shoulder and walked towards the door, stopping only for a moment to look back at me. I remained standing in that spot, sort of in a daze. This was the first time I had been close enough to Lana. And this is going to sound creepy, but it was the first time I’ve been able to fully take her in. She smelled both earthy and fruity, ‘must be her shampoo or body wash’ I thought to myself. The fruity smell reminded me of my mother, who, before everything changed, would spend hours a day in the kitchen baking fruity tarts, apple pies, cakes...you name it. The scent triggered something else, a memory that I had long suppressed. I stood there, shaking my head, literally shaking the memory away. I couldn’t face that right now.

As I stood there, looking after Lana as she walked away, struggling with my memories and trying to gain control of my senses, I came to a realisation. Lana intrigued me; that was obvious. This incredible, weirdly unique girl intrigued me. She was the polar opposite of me – even before things changed. I’ve always been graceful, steady on my feet, confident and content being the centre of attention. She’s the opposite; clumsy in all ways, she had a weird confidence, in the sense that she was completely comfortable with who she was and she wouldn’t change herself for anyone, but she wasn’t confident in social settings and she most definitely did not want to be seen...by anyone.

From that moment at the stream, I felt compelled to get to know Lana, to talk to her, to be near her. But I also knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. I wasn’t a normal teenage boy by any means. I wasn’t safe for her and I shouldn’t want to be in her life or put her life in danger. But I couldn’t help it. I needed her, that much I knew. I needed Lana. I would do anything to make sure that I never hurt her or caused her pain. I would do anything to protect her from my world. I knew the risks and complications that came from being in my life...I was willing to take that chance. Was it unfair of me not to let her make the decision herself, especially by keeping the truth from her? Probably. But if I did right by Lana, then she’d never know.

One thing I did know, I wanted Lana in my life. But before I could do that, I had to learn to control my senses around her. They went into overdrive and I knew it was because there was something special about her, but also because I was on high alert. Being back at school meant that literally every single one of these kids and teachers’ lives were in danger, just by my presence here. But Lana compounded that. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, ever, because of me. But I would move heaven and earth to ensure Lana’s safety.

[thetimelesscycle]

Tales of Arcadia Wizards Fanfiction: Hope Dies Last - Chapter 6

Morgana and Archie find more than they bargained for in the Shadow Realm's hidden corners. Douxie is having the worst day in nine hundred years of history worth of bad days.

 A/N: In which we fudge Shadow Realm rules and everyone is traumatized.

Chapter 6

All Around Me Are Familiar Places

She stumbled into a bookshelf with a cry of denial still lingering on her lips, a half a dozen volumes toppling to the floor along with some sort of ornamental statue that shattered on the impact. They were no longer in the study, a soft rug beneath her feet, and the glowing vines now a curling pattern on the floral motif that adorned the walls. The colours here were less faded, the shadows less deep. To her left, what had probably once been a gentle fire for warmth was currently a growing inferno escaping its hearth, creeping up the wall as it blackened the painting that hung above it.

“Douxie?” Focussed more on the room’s occupant than its furnishings, Archie trotted to where his familiar was kneeling in the centre of the room, a stark sense of grief in the words he whispered to the time map’s heedlessly flickering colours.

“I tried to fix it. I tried.”

Banishing her own disquiet to the back of her mind, Morgana followed Archie to crouch before the young wizard, her eyes catching on the illusions rising and falling within the strange little device in flashes of red and blue. She saw herself and Arthur, at peace and at odds. She saw their battle on the clifftop, her victory swiftly becoming her end. She saw the somber march back to Camelot, and she saw another scene altogether. A pale, faded alternative, where the fight had started in Merlin’s tower and it had been her old master, not her brother, who drove her out of Camelot.

None of it made sense, and none of it mattered right now. It wasn’t why she was here. She was here to save a soul someone had torn to shreds and left to be taunted by what he considered to be his greatest failures, and that was what she was going to do, irrespective of the dread taking root in the back of her mind. Tentatively, she laid her hand on a bent shoulder, prompting the boy to raise his head.

“I’m sorry.” Hisirdoux’s voice cracked, colour flooding his form as her hand settled into place so she could clearly see his pained expression. “I tried to stop you, but I was too late. You weren’t supposed to die.”

She recoiled as though she had been struck, only to snatch her hand out again as he began to fade before her eyes. He solidified the moment she made contact, and she released the breath she had been holding, acutely aware of the fact she really had no idea what she was doing. She hadn’t studied Shadow Magic for the purpose of tormenting souls, and she certainly had no idea how to undo someone’s else attempt to accomplish the same. All she could do was trust her instincts, and hope she didn’t make this worse.

“Maybe we should stop,” Archie began hesitantly, clambering back onto her shoulder as he watched his familiar return to his stricken whispering. “This is—”

“No.” She turned on him, something fierce and determined drowning out the fear in the back of her mind. “I can feel him. This is real. We can’t leave him like this.”

“But, that vision...”

It wasn’t a vision. Impossible as it was, they had stumbled into a memory. A memory that hadn’t happened yet, but had left a mark on Hisirdoux’s soul that was strong enough to endure in this realm. There had to be others. More of these preserved flashes of time that would hold the answers to the questions burning in the back of her mind, as well as the key to Hisirdoux’s salvation.

“We need to keep going.”

She laid her hands over the top of the time map, closing it and locking the churning images inside. It glowed as the lid sealed, the runes on Douxie’s bracelet coming alight as the box dematerialised in a bright flash. He stared blankly at his empty hands when it was gone as she waited to be certain nothing more would happen. When the world didn’t shatter around them, she reached out to pull him to his feet, careful to keep a firm grip on his arm as she paused to look about the room.

At first glance there was nothing to see. It was a library of some sort, a good deal tidier than Merlin normally kept his own. Random trinkets and paintings interspersed the numerous volumes lining the shelves, and there were glass cases in a neat row beneath the frost covered windows. The only odd thing was the fire slowly consuming one wall, and the thick, decorated tome standing on a pedestal all of its own.

She frowned. That certainly hadn’t been there a moment before. Making sure she never lost her hold on Douxie, she crossed the room to examine the large book. She could feel the magic rising off it before she had even drawn near, a clear indication of what she was looking at. This was a grimoire. This was a great wizard’s legacy... and all of his secrets.

Curiosity swelling, she reached to open it.

Douxie objected.

Vehemently.

“No.” He yanked against her grip, trying to take a step back. She didn’t let him, keeping a tight hold on his wrist. “No, please. Not again.”

She didn’t need to guess the reason for his resistance. The Shadow Realm fed most strongly on negative emotions; Grief, loss, pain. The memories that were the most powerful here would not be the echoes of happier times. With the sight of her own death still seared into the back of her mind, she could easily imagine what they would be walking into next.

“You have to, Douxie.” It felt cruel, but the fire was still spreading, insidiously creeping outwards to start on the nearest of the bookshelves, working its way around the vines that resisted its touch. She didn’t have time to be kind. “It’s the only way.”

He didn’t listen, devolving into wild flailing as he tried to free himself from her grip. She braced herself against his efforts, hooking her fingers beneath the cover of the book and throwing it open.

The smell of old trees and damp earth assaulted her senses, the taint of dark magic dangerously strong for a fleeting moment. It faded as soon as she recognised it, replaced with the no less disturbing scent of spilt blood, and the lingering, electric feel of dissipating, powerful magic.

“I can fix this!” Douxie’s voice was frantic this time as he knelt beside an indistinct shadow, one hand running through his hair as he held the other before him, palm up in a gesture of helplessness. “I—I can fix this.” He lowered his left arm, desperately cycling through the runes on his bracelet. “I can—I, I…”

“It’s Merlin.”

Archie spoke the words numbly, a strange expression on his face when she glanced at him. When she looked back the image had crystallised, coming into focus so sharply it took her breath away. Her old master lay sprawled upon the grassy ground, bleeding out as his apprentice tried to conjure up a miracle. 

She found herself stepping forward slowly, deliberately ignoring the dying Master Wizard as she knelt down, reaching across and intercepting Merlin’s ghostly hand to close her own, very solid fingers about Hisirdoux’s vambrace. The illusion shook briefly, the dying wizard fading away, leaving her staring directly into the devastation Merlin’s death would leave behind.

“I can fix this,” the boy whispered the same mantra again, a promise and a plea. “I can fix this.”

“You don’t need to.” Memory or not, this hadn’t happened yet. “He’s not dead.”

The panicked words slowed to a stop, the eyes that met her own exhausted, reflecting a weariness that made her chest ache in sympathy.

“Not yet,” he answered her. “None of this has happened yet. Not you, not Merlin, not the end of the world.”

“What are you talking about, Douxie?” Archie’s question, as gentle as it was concerned, snapped the young wizard’s attention away from Morgana to rest on the feline familiar still seated on her shoulder. His eyes widened, and he started to pull away from her.

“No. No, no, no. Not you too.”

“Hisirdoux...” She reached for him, but he lurched away, his left hand glowing blue as he raised it. She braced herself for a spell, only to find herself wholly unprepared when the ground beneath her feet opened up and dragged her down into a pool of pale, blue light.

She plunged through empty space, her fall ending with a violent jolt that had her teeth slamming together and every bone in her body screaming in protest. She found herself standing in another room when the light faded and her vision cleared. The walls were an off-white; What little she could see of them beneath the various colourful drawings and sketches that had been plastered haphazardly across their surface. There were pictures as well, moving portraits that portrayed faces she didn’t recognise, a looping series of movements that repeated as they ended. It was a lot, yet not quite enough to hide the cracks, though she rather doubted the real world equivalent of this room housed glimpses into the abyss in its walls.

The vines this time were harder to see, lost amidst the chaotic clutter of a space that was well lived in. After a few moments of searching she found them, curled like gentle fingers around the edges of a strange looking lute that held pride of place atop a three-legged pedestal. It was glowing gently, the cyan light familiar and distinctive, and she turned at once in search of Douxie.

She found him curled atop the unmade bed that took up a good half of the space in the room, pressed against the far wall, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head buried in his arms, shaking quietly in place. At his feet, glowing with a light that pulsed softly, was Merlin’s staff.

She approached slowly to settle on the bed beside him, ignoring the strange creak it emitted when she did so. With careful hands, she lifted the staff and held it out as an offering, waiting the long moments it took for him to raise his head. He met her gaze only briefly, dropping his to the precious object she held, not moving to take it.

“This isn’t real.”

“No,” she agreed softly. “It’s not. But the only way out of here is to put all the pieces back together, Douxie. Even the ones that hurt.”

He smiled through the tears — brave boy — and answered her in a voice that only shook slightly. “At least those are easy to find.”

He reached out, wrapping his fingers around the staff and lifting it from her hands. The emerald that had been its master’s pride and joy shattered the moment he did so, the handle turning to dust as a swirling cloud of glowing, green smoke rose from the remains and briefly enveloped the young wizard.

It faded as quickly as it had appeared. Douxie exhaled shakily, then accepted the hand that she offered, allowing her to help him to his feet for the second time. They stood together amidst a wafting cloud of smoke, the flames that had thus far been absent from the illusion gnawing at the walls and the images that hung upon them. The moving portraits had shifted, the people who had been smiling before now battle worn and weary, a thin layer of ice forming along the edges of the frames. The lute glowed brighter in response, its pale light warring against the shadows pressing down on them all.

“Shall we continue?”

Archie’s voice was steady, deliberately pitched to be calming. Morgana waited for Douxie’s silent nod, unwilling to force him again, and then walked him across the room to the instrument. He lifted it with care, its form shifting as he did so, and she had a brief moment to recognise the staff that had started all of this, whole and unbroken, before the illusion of safety crumbled once more. A whirlwind of colours flashed by, echoes of a wild array of emotions battering against her senses as they were flung into the midst of another memory.

They came to a standstill in the centre of a calamity; A city aflame and encased in ice all at once. It was a strange place, forged of metal and glass instead of shingle and stone, but she could spare no more than a bare glance to study their surroundings. There was fighting taking place in the streets. It looked as if the darker denizens of the magic world had all emerged at once to take their revenge, the ferocity of their attack met with the equal determination of this kingdom’s defenders. The clashing figures were indistinct, too far away for her to make out, but she understood what was happening nonetheless, and was powerless to stop it. Instead, she found herself rooted to the sidelines, Archie on her shoulder, helplessly watching disaster unfold.

“Go!”

A shadow portal opened to her left, a girl no older than Hisirdoux gesturing frantically towards the opening as she and several others ferried terrified civilians towards salvation. Battle raged all around them, spells and blades alike being flung with utter abandon, and the rescuers were too slow to see the fireball hurtling at them from behind.

It bounced off a glowing blue rune circle instead, exploding in mid-air and prompting everyone in the vicinity to duck. Hisirdoux hurtled out of the smoke so fast he staggered upon landing, his vambrace and hands aglow as he pivoted in place and threw an orb of arcane energy back in the direction he’d come from. He didn’t wait to see it land, whirling on the stunned survivors and shouting to be heard over the cacophony of battle.

“We’re out of time. Move it!”

The group started running again, but it was too late. Morgana sensed that much even before the ground started rumbling, erupting a second later in a deadly barrage of pointed icicles. Somebody screamed as they were impaled, the shadow portal closing as the survivors threw themselves through it with desperate abandon. They had barely had time to react to that threat before another fireball detonated amidst the newly formed field of death, splintering the ice into a thousand lethal projectiles. They flew in all directions as the flames surged across the battlefield; A violent wave consuming all in its path.

Morgana saw Douxie raise both his hands, fingers aglow, but the shield he was casting did not form around him, and she could only watch in horror as he vanished within the inferno.

When the smoke cleared it left an eerie stillness in its wake. So far as she could tell, there were only two sides to this battle, and that spell had consumed many of its caster’s allies as well. An accident, or a callous disregard for the lives they were using? The question was hardly the most pressing right now, and Morgana unwittingly released a sigh of relief as Douxie rose, coughing and swaying but still alive, from amidst the wreckage. He was still regaining his bearings when the ice lance flashed through the air, and an unmistakable, winged shadow swooped out of the sky to intercept it.

“Douxie!” The first of the flying projectiles shattered in dragon’s fire, but the Archie of this memory had missed the second, and it struck him mid-flight. He dropped like a stone to crash amidst the debris and lie deathly still. 

“Arch!” Heedless of the shards slicing through unprotected skin, Hisirdoux scrambled to his familiar’s side. “No. No. No, no, no!”

“And so our little game comes to an end.” A small, floating figure clad in ragged black emerged from the mist, smiling as he twirled the staff in his hands. Douxie was too slow to turn, ice flaring about his wrists like shackles to yank him back to the ground even as he fought to stand. “It was fun whilst it lasted.”

“We told you you would die for this.” A second figure snapped into place in a whirlwind of flame; Morgana could feel the heat against her cheeks despite not being a part of the scene herself. “You should have run when you had the chance.”

Someone was screaming in the distance as the fire wizard stalked closer, their staff extended and glowing. Hisirdoux paid no heed, his eyes fixed on Archie’s limp form. Something cracked, a ripple of arcane power that sent an electric jolt up her spine as the shackles holding Douxie in place abruptly shattered.

Reacting to the impending threat, the second figure moved with sudden urgency to slam their staff against the young wizard’s chest. “Not this time.”

The boy started to scream, the power he had called on dissipating as the spell took hold. Morgana tried to move, to intervene, and found herself locked in place.

“A pity you shan’t live long enough to see what you have wrought.” Watching with morbid fascination, the smaller of the two lifted his eyes. For a brief moment, he seemed to be smiling at the interlopers standing witness in frozen horror. “Merlin would have been so disappointed...”

“You can’t have him!” Amidst the red and blue that had overtaken the battlefield, a surge of pale green light flooded the scene. Thin, glowing lines moved in spiralling patterns across the ground, rising in the form of woven vines to wrap themselves about Hisirdoux’s writhing body as a third being stepped into the frame. She held her hand aloft, her golden eyes glowing with unveiled fury that overshadowed her tiny frame. “I won’t let you!”

Whatever she had done, it had granted Douxie reprieve enough to try to shout at her,  though it came out as more of a whisper, nothing but horror in his shaking voice. “Nari, no. Run!”

The ice wizard lifted his staff, preparing to lash out as his fiery companion renewed their assault with a fierce snarl. The sorceress raised her other hand in the same heartbeat. From the opposite side, the young shadow witch stumbled out of the wreckage, her eyes turning black as she hurled her own magic into the fray.

The combination of spells collided in an explosion of chaotic magic that consumed the entire battlefield, reality itself bending beneath the force of the implosion. Morgana felt what was coming, and had just enough time to wrap her own magic around Douxie and drag him with them as both she and her dragon companion were thrust out of the memory.

It wasn’t until her back struck the wall that she realised they had been ejected from the Shadow Realm altogether. She barely had time to figure out which way was up and hurriedly right herself before the room came alight with magic, Merlin’s carefully organised books scattering in all directions before a wild force seeking an enemy and finding none. Hisirdoux shot upright amidst the chaos, flinging himself out of the bed and staggering across the room to lean against the far wall, gasping for breath like a drowning man.

“Douxie!” Archie pelted to the boy’s side, lifting a paw to rest against his familiar’s leg. “Douxie, are you alright?”

“J—just a minute, Arch.”

Morgana paused halfway towards the pair, startled by the coherency of that response. She jumped when the door behind her swung open, Merlin storming in with staff in hand, only to pull himself up short as he drank in the disastrous scene. His eyes darted from Morgana, to Archie, and finally settled on Hisirdoux, watching as the boy wrestled his roiling magic back under control.

When the last sparks of cyan light flickered out, the apprentice turned his back to the wall and slid to the floor with a light thump, letting out a low groan. “Ow. That settles it; Bellroc is officially the worst.”

“Bellroc?” Merlin barked in confusion, whilst Morgana and Archie exchanged an awkward glance. “What on earth have you three been doing?”

“Master?” Douxie dropped his hand from his chest to rest on his familiar’s head, blinking owlishly at the fuming Master Wizard. “Oh, blast it. I’m not dead again, am I? Zoe will be furious.”

Merlin’s face went through a series of peculiar contortions. “What do you mean, ‘dead again’?”

“Uh...” Hisirdoux froze, looking to Archie for help, only to find his familiar looking just as aghast as the rest of the room. “Right, um...”

“Never mind.” Rolling his eyes, Merlin crossed the remaining space between them. “Can you stand?”

A pale tinge of hysteria to his voice, Douxie shook his head. “I’d really rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Then I suppose we will have this conversation here.”

Glancing about the floor, Merlin waved a hand to restack some of the books that had been scattered in the latest magical mishap, settling himself atop the pile once he was done. After a moment of incredulous staring, Morgana followed suit, and Archie pointedly climbed into his wizard’s lap. Effectively surrounded, Hisirdoux glanced between the three of them uneasily for a moment, then let his head fall back against the wall with a painful sounding thud.

“Probably should have seen that coming, huh?”

“Probably,” Archie said agreeably, masking his worry with wry humour.

“This isn’t an interrogation,” Morgana interjected, not flinching when Douxie’s gaze snapped to meet her own. “We are all just worried.”

“Yeah.” He looked down at the dragon in his lap, swallowing, before lifting his head to offer them a watery smile. “It is good to see you again. All of you. Even if you are just an elaborate hallucination.”

“And why would you think that?” Merlin demanded, scowl darkening by the second.

“Well, you’re both dead, for a start.”

To his credit, Merlin took that in his stride. “I can assure you that we are no more dead than you are, Hisirdoux.”

“That’s kind of the part that’s worrying me, Master.”

“Douxie.” She’d never intended to hide what they’d done from Merlin, so she didn’t hesitate to use what she’d seen now with him sitting right beside her. “It was real, wasn’t it? All of that... it actually happened. You lived through it.”

The look he gave her was haunted, an answer in and of itself, and she watched him open and close his mouth a few times in complete silence. “Then, this is...?”

“You are in Camelot,” she supplied. “We are all alive and well at present.”

He swallowed, face twisting into an uneasy grimace. “I’m... not sure if that’s better or worse.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Merlin suggested, eyeing Morgana with clear suspicion and a good measure of irritation at being left out of the loop.

“It’s a long story,” Hisirdoux warned, then shrugged slightly. “And it started, Master, the first time you decided to take a nap...”

[bmaxwell]

Best Games I Don’t Want to Play

I play many games. I prefer to think of myself as a connoisseur, not just another pasty white neckbeard who has gained 50lb in the past year. But when I’m not working, or parenting, or doing other adult-type things, I’m usually playing a game of some sort. 

                                            Me playing Bloodborne

My job allows me to listen to podcasts while working, so between gaming podcasts and my Twitter feed, I end up hearing about approximately all of the games. And I’ve played enough diamonds in the rough and been delighted by enough things outside my comfort zone to cast a pretty wide net. 

Once in awhile, I find a game that I deeply want to connect with, but cannot. Like a defective moth to a digital flame, I keep coming back every year or two to try, try again. I’ll scroll through my library and think “Damn, Iconoclasts seems so cool! Why didn’t I get into that one? I need to try it again.” and repeat. It’s The Alan Wake Sbarro Experience.*

                                              Me playing Bloodborne

I spend a lot of time gaming. I spend a lot of time thinking. I think about thinking and I think about gaming. I like trying to find patterns, or to understand why certain games, or songs, or movies resonate with me while others fall flat. And so, dear reader, if you woke up today hoping against all odds you’d have the chance to read about some random gamer dude’s disappointing games on his blog - WELL...today is your lucky day! 

In no particular order:

Outer Wilds

Why it’s great:

Outer Wilds is about the majesty of space, exploration, and accepting that dying is a natural part of the cycle. At least I think it is. I really like the look of it, and I really like the idea of it. It has a low-tech charm; you start off on a planet where people are playing banjos and roasting marshmallows, and everyone seems laid back. The launch pad is made of rickety wood. Your ship might be, too. There’s a major mystery at hand that needs solving, and you’re just the being to do it.

Why I can’t get into it:

I’m not entirely sure. But I think it has something to do with how directionless and open the game is. Apart from some basic “Here’s how to control stuff” on your home planet, the rest is up to you. You can fly anywhere and check out anything. The universe somehow feels huge and scary and vast but not overwhelming. I have a problem with this kind of freedom. I once heard Patrick Klepek say that there are two kinds of kids: the kind who takes a block of Legos, tosses the instructions out, and has a blast making whatever, and the kid that HAS to have those directions. I’m the latter.

The Return of the Obra Dinn

Why it’s great:

It’s not often I play something that feels wholly unique. That’s Obra Dinn. It’s a weird Where’s Waldo whodunnit logic and deduction puzzle. You’re an insurance claims adjuster, tasked with finding out what happened to everyone aboard an abandoned ship. You do this by way of hearing audio clips and walking around memories frozen like dioramas. Sound design, visuals, concept, execution - Obra Dinn is just a success in every way.

Why I can’t get into it:

Logic and deduction puzzles feel like work, no matter how much I wish they didn’t. There are so many details to weigh against each other, I find the game exhausting and not fun to play. Playing it always made me feel tired and stupid.

Hyper Light Drifter

Why it’s great:

The main developer behind Hyper Light Drifter has congenital heart disease, and uses art to deal with his condition. He made this game where the protagonist suffers from a terminal disease. It’s a project made by someone with a passion for the subject matter. Diablo and A Link to the Past were among his inspirations. It has cool pixel art. The title is tits as fuck.

Why I can’t get into it:

I fired the game up and its opening cut scene worked for me. And I just do not know what happened. The movement and combat feels crisp, and yet I just can’t get into it. The world has no dialogue and has lots of puzzles to sort out. Maybe that’s it? There’s no real direction. Is that it?

                                      Me playing Hyper Light Drifter

Control

Why it’s great:

Before I talk about Control, I have to talk about Alan Wake from the same developer. Actually, just nevermind. Fuck Alan Wake.

Control’s writing, visuals, and worldbuilding are top notch. The game has a good central mystery, intriguing and well-written characters, and it’s often genuinely funny. It stars a redhead. 

Alan Wake was such a neat premise for a video game - a Stephen King-like story of a novelist who heads to a remote location to combat his writer’s block, only to have mysterious, supernatural shit happen to him. A cool, atmospheric mystery - great! I DON’T NEED OR WANT TO FIGHT RANDOM HITCHHIKER MONSTER MANS CONSTANTLY. I CAN ENJOY YOUR STORY I WON’T GET BORED WITHOUT ZOMBIES AND GUNS I PROMISE YOU

Why I can’t get into it:

I hate the combat. 3rd person cover shooting is not my jam. I figured once they added the option to turn the difficulty down I’d be all about it, but no. The map may be the worst I’ve encountered, it’s multilayered slightly varying shades of grey all spaghetti’d on top of one another. There’s supposed to be a door here...I guess it must be up or down a level? The checkpointing system sucks. Combine these two complaints with too many random battles, and this game is a real slog for me to try to get through, despite its good qualities.

Baba is You

Why it’s great:

See Obra Dinn. It’s a brilliant, unique puzzle game that is a bad fit for my brain. Visually, it’s dead simple. Each stage consists of a sheep named Baba, with some crude walls, water, rocks, grass, etc and a flag. There are also words on the screen that you can push around to make phrases which govern the game rules. So, if it says “Flag is Win” then you win the stage by getting Baba to the flag. Or you could push the word Baba into the space where Flag was and spell “Baba is Win.” Instant win. And so on.

Why I can’t get into it:

That “and so on” contains multitudes. Baba is hard. Bryan is dumb. Bryan is hard. Baba is Bryan. Baba is dumb. Hard is dumb.  I can’t do this.

Disgaea (just all of them)

Why its great:

It’s a long-running strategy RPG series, and I love those. Right? It’s anime and, if I don’t always love it, at least it’s not a deal-breaker. Right?

Why I can’t get into it: Wrong, apparently. First up, the anime is the kind of loud, shrill, in-your-face anime that put me off the stuff for most of my life. The gameplay is...a lot. It’s deep, and that’s a good thing. Right? I feel like if I hunker down and put real work into learning all of the game’s systems I’d probably love it! Maybe!

Hitman 2016

Why it’s great:

The game gives you a ton of creative freedom in how you go about carrying out your hits. You’re changing outfits to get access to different parts of the area, and using whichever makeshift weapons you can to get the job done. A can of pasta sauce is just as deadly as a pistol, and a lot more fun. The ridiculousness of the game’s clockwork world ends up being a positive because of how serious and straight-laced your protagonist is. 

Why I can’t get into it:

It’s the Lego problem again. Too much freedom, not enough direction. Every time something goes wrong, my lizard brain says YOU’RE SO BAD AT THIS WHY ARE YOU SO STUPID YOU CAN’T DO THIS AT ALL FOOL and my rational brain quietly says Uh, it’s just a game, bud. No one cares. No one’s scoring you on this. Just learn from your mistakes and have fun. Which is apparently not a convincing argument.

*The name of my new ska band

[thefreckledone]

Satori (Between the Lines) - Part 15

“We need nicknames,” Sakura says, glancing up from the book she’s reading. 

“Nicknames?” Ino repeats, focus remaining on the kunai she twirls between her fingers deftly. It isn’t a practice kunai and Sakura is sure that Inoichi would not be happy if he found out. “That’s a bit random isn’t it? What brought this on?”

Sakura squeezes the book, a journal on loan from Jiraiya, for a moment before her grip eases. “Maybe nicknames isn’t the right word for it. Codenames, rather.”

“Codenames?” Torune asks, shifting along the grass so he can look up toward Sakura. “Was there something about that in the journal?”

“Yeah,” Sakura says. “Well, it’s come up before in my training. Codenames get used during wartime.” She touches the cover of the journal. “All of the ranking officers received them.”

“And you’re getting a head start for us?” Shino asks, lips quirking.

“Well, as clan children you’ll undoubtedly rank,” Sakura replies, puffing her cheeks up at Shino’s teasing. “You know, if we go to war again.”

“You think we will?” Ino says, cornflower blue eyes going wide. 

Sakura shrugs, deflating a bit. She’s heard some whispers among the agents at T&I, but nothing conclusive. There’s also the fact that the Academy even started the field experience assignments to begin with. All of the clan children ended up in positions that were out of their comfort zone: Ino, slotted for her mind specialty, was mentored by a weapon master; Shikamaru, slotted for strategy, was put to physical work clearing the Forty-Fourth Training Ground; Shino, slotted for sabotage and clean up, was assigned to work in a political setting in the fire daimyō’s fort in Konoha. The list went on in a similar manner. All of the clan children were being tested and, in Sakura’s opinion, refined to be better rounded. The civilian children were placed in less desirable circumstances, Sakura included. By chance and happenstance, Sakura was afforded a much better position in the end. In Sakura’s mind, that indicated a vested interest in raising up strong clan heirs to protect Konoha. “I think it’s possible.”

Ino hums, eyes narrowing speculatively on Sakura. Sakura meets her gaze boldly, knowing well how easily Ino could implement her jutsu and use it against Sakura. But Sakura trusts her friend. “You think it’s probable.”

Sakura chuckles, shaking her head wryly. Ino is too smart for her own good. “It seems likely. Konoha doesn’t usually have long periods of peace. It’s pretty amazing that there hasn’t been a war in our lifetime.”

“So, codenames then,” Torune says. “Is there usually a sort of rhyme or reason to them? A theme that unites them?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Sakura replies, astonished. “How’d you--?”

“I’ve been your friend long enough to recognize patterns,” Torune says with a huff, though a smile peeks through. “You cryptographers love unified ciphers that apply across multiple situations. The more universal, the better.”

Sakura grins at him, reaching over and grabbing his hand. “You’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”

Torune laughs in delight. “Not even close.”

“Well, in any case, we should probably use some sort of key that unifies the codenames,” Sakura says. She glances around at the others. “Any ideas?”

Silence ensues and Sakura lies back against the grass, staring up at the sky as she thinks.

“We could do insects,” Shino says after a while. “Torune would be Bee because he’s so noisy and Ino would be Wasp because…” He trails off, giggling. “Well, that one is self-explanatory.”

“Absolutely not!” Ino says, pulling up grass and throwing it on him. Her brows are furrowed, but her lips twitch with a smile. “You best watch your words or I’ll give you a nasty sting with a kunai!”

Shino immediately shuts his mouth, but Sakura can see his shoulders trembling with laughter. 

“Bee doesn’t suit me anymore,” Torune says, squeezing Sakura’s hand. “I hardly ever buzz anymore.”

“That’s true,” Ino says, turning away from attacking Shino to tap on her chin. “Why not flowers? They already have underlying meanings attached to them. And the specific names of the flowers are less likely to come up in daily conversation.”

“That’s true,” Sakura says, mind flashing for a moment to Celandine. She thinks he might appreciate having others with similar names as him. “That’s a really good idea, Ino!” She pauses, pondering. “Now what should they be?”

Everyone lapses into silence once more. Torune sits up after several moments, touching his goggles. More specifically, touching the leatherwork that Sakura did on it. “Sunflower for me,” he says, tone brooking no arguments. “Longevity, loyalty, and adoration.”

Sakura is impressed by the fact that Torune knows the meaning in the language of flowers for sunflower, but she sees Ino’s smile flatten a little at the last word. Did he get something wrong? “That makes sense,” Ino says with a nod. “And we can call you Helianthus as well; it’s the more technical name and could obscure the origin from outsiders more.”

“Helianthus,” Sakura repeats, trying out the long, unfamiliar word. It doesn’t exactly roll off her tongue, but something about it suits Torune. It’s complex but elegant, just like Torune himself is. “It suits you.”

“If we’re going for more obscure names, I suppose Ivy doesn’t work for me,” Shino sighs.

“Dependence, endurance, and faithfulness,” Ino says, parsing out the meaning. Her smile takes on a teasing light. “Can you live up to that type of name?”

“Of course,” Shino says readily. “I’m the heir of the Aburame; I must be these things to lead the clan.”

“In that case, Hedera would be your codename,” Ino says. “It’s the technical name.” She glances between the cousins. “Helianthus and Hedera; the shared first syllable is a nice indicator of your familial bond.”

“So now it’s Ino’s turn,” Sakura says. She cycles through her limited knowledge of the language of flowers, trying to come up with a flower that accurately represents her first friend. She comes up with nothing. What flower represents Ino’s strength, the way she’s a veritable force of nature? “Ino, is there a flower that means conviction and strength?”

“Gladiolus,” Ino says immediately. “Strength of character, honor, and conviction. Gladiolus is the ‘sword lily.’”

“That’s perfect for you!” Sakura exclaims, clapping her hands. “You’re so strong and determined.” She gestures to Ino’s now ever-present kunai pouch. “And you certainly carry enough knives around with you.”

Ino stares at Sakura for several moments, surprised, before grinning. Her cheeks flush as she watches Sakura. “That--well, that’s really sweet of you. Do you really see me like that?”

“Of course,” Sakura replies. “You’re so strong, Ino. It’s inspiring.”

“Gladiolus,” Ino says. “Wasn’t what I was expecting, certainly, but I’ll definitely take it!”

“What about you, Sakura?” Torune asks.

“What about me?” Sakura says.

“Your codename,” Torune replies. “You said that all ranked officers receive them.”

Sakura blushes at the inadvertent compliment, the unwavering faith in Torune’s voice. He thinks she’ll rank in the future and he doesn’t think she’s foolish for making plans about it. “Well, I’m not really sure.” She curls her lip a little bit. “Definitely not cherry blossom; it’s far too obvious.”

“What’s a flower that represents courage?” Shino asks, looking at Ino.

“Both borage and protea mean courage,” Ino replies.

“Borage,” Torune says. “It has a nice ring to it.”

0Hands slam down on Sakura’s desk. “Are you alright with this?”

Sakura jumps, turning from her conversation with Ino and Shino to meet Shikamaru’s furious eyes. She swallows, arms stinging in a reminder of the last time she incurred his wrath. His eyes burn as fiercely as smoldering coals, a single spark threatening to set them both aflame. She’s a bit surprised that he’s approached her; he’s let her be for the weeks since his apology. However, she won’t back down from his anger, even knowing what he is capable of.

“Alright with what?” she asks, directing a pointed look at his hands on the desk.

Shikamaru seems to recognize his position because he flushes, the anger dimming as he straightens his posture. “Sorry,” he says, the word coming easier and quicker than his first apology. “I overreacted.”

Sakura hums her assent, still eyeing him warily. “What brought you over here?” she asks, eyes flicking around the room. 

Iruka-sensei is not here, none of the teachers are, as this is the free time for students. It’s really meant as a time for students to smooze and establish ties among each other without direct supervision. But Sakura knows that someone is observing; when Sasuke and Kiba’s last argument devolved to fisticuffs, a teacher was “conveniently” nearby. There is no such interference for scuffles among civilian students; either because they aren’t worth the hassle or such fighting will “toughen” them up. Sakura doesn’t know. So she isn’t sure what will happen if a civilian goes up against a clan child during this free time; if there will be interference or not. 

She does know that she’ll be the one facing repercussions.

“My father,” Shikamaru says, folding his arms behind his back. “Have you not heard?”

“Obviously not,” Ino bites out, glaring at Shikamaru. “Stop dallying and state whatever has you so riled.”

Shikamaru glares at Ino, lip curling. Their relationship, splintered by Shikamaru’s attack on Sakura in that game gone so wrong, is still contentious as ever. Sakura feels bad for Chōji, always having to mediate between them whenever they have to interact at Ino-Shika-Chō reunions, which occur often. Sakura wonders if they’ll ever restore their friendship and, if not, if it’ll be taken into consideration when team assignments happen. Shikamaru swings his attention back over to Sakura, expression softening. “My father has taken on a new apprentice.”

Sakura blinks, processing the information. She feels a slight sting in her heart, a pressure that squeezes her tight for a moment. She respected Shikaku, looked up to him. He introduced her to the world of codes and ciphers and Sakura will never be able to repay him for that knowledge. But she has also known the pain of her hero being knocked from his shiny pedestal. Truthfully, it hurt far more when she realized that Shikaku did not have her best interests at heart. She is the one who cut ties with him because she couldn’t accept the actions he chose. So this? This is the natural progression of things.

“That’s good,” Sakura says finally. She can see Shino and Ino relax in her periphery.

“Is that all you have to say?” Shikamaru says, incredulous.

Sakura scratches her cheek. “Offer him my congratulations, I suppose,” she says, unsure what he’s getting at.

Shikamaru flushes, brows furrowing in his frustration. “He replaced you!”

“We cut ties,” Sakura replies mildly. “It makes sense that he found a new apprentice.”

“You aren’t planning to return?” Shikamaru asks.

“No,” Sakura says, squirming a bit beneath Shikamaru’s keen eyes. “I’m not. I will be forever thankful to Nara-san for the education he provided me. He assisted me in honing my interest into a passion. But our time working together is over. We’ve parted ways. I wish him well with his new apprentice and hope that their partnership will progress in a fruitful manner.”

“Oh,” Shikamaru says, deflating. “I see.”

“Are you alright?” Sakura asks after several moments, reading the lost look in his eyes. They aren’t friends, but Sakura doesn’t consider him her enemy either.

“I’m fine,” he says with a sigh. He shakes his head, focusing on Sakura once more. “I’m fine. I apologize for my...outburst. It’s just...she isn’t you.”

Sakura cocks her head, assessing him. She doesn’t really know how to respond to that last statement. So, she chooses to ignore it. “I forgive you for your outburst. And…” She pauses, not sure if she’s reading him right. “Thank you for your concern.”

Shikamaru’s face darkens to a violent red as he nods, scurrying over to his seat. Sakura watches him go, quizzical, but thankful that it did not come to blows.

Shikamaru is still hot-tempered, but, Sakura thinks, he might be growing.

Just maybe.

0“So this is what borage looks like,” Sakura says, scrutinizing the plant. The petals are a deep blue shade and number five in all, shaping the flower into a star. At the center are small white petals, that make the blue all the more stark. The stem and unbloomed buds are fuzzy and Sakura runs a finger over them. “Not what I was expecting.”

“It’s a beautiful flower and suits you,” Ino says firmly.

“I believe you,” Sakura says with a laugh. “Just, it looks a little unassuming to mean ‘courage.’”

“Maybe so,” Ino says, kneeling down in the soil to cup the flower. 

They are in one of the many gardens that the Yamanaka clan owns and cultivates. This one belongs specifically to Ino. When she comes of age, she will be given a greenhouse, should she prove her worth as a gardener. Sakura’s understanding about this proving is that Ino will have to handrear a difficult flower. Ino, an overachiever by nature, plans to breed a new flower entirely through cross-cultivation.

“Still, it reminds me of you,” Ino says. “It’s a hardy flower, but still gorgeous.” She glances up at Sakura for a moment, before looking down at the cluster of borage plants. “Borage is often used as a companion plant.”

“Companion plant?” Sakura repeats the unfamiliar phrase.

“Companion plants are plants that are placed with different crops,” Ino says. “Borage specifically acts as a protector to tomatoes, spinach, legumes, brassicas, and strawberries.”

“It protects other plants,” Sakura says, charmed by the idea.

“It does,” Ino says, glancing at Sakura. “Sometimes at a cost to itself, as pests might attack it instead of the ‘more valuable’ plants.”

“Oh,” Sakura says, lips pursing. She doesn’t like the sound of that. She holds onto her forearm, remembering her encounter with the Nara clan. In fact, the treatment of civilian-born shinobi in comparison to clan-born shinobi could be classed in a similar manner.

“My aunt claims that tomatoes grown among borage plants grow faster and taste better than those that grow alone,” Ino says. “The insects that usually lay eggs in tomatoes are confused by the borage and sometimes even infest the borage.” 

“I see,” Sakura says evenly, watching her friend. From the gleam in Ino’s eyes, her words aren’t spoken without thought; she wants Sakura to listen to the subtext in her words. Clans threaten to consume civilians who are of use to them, to further their own flourishing. “Why bring this up now?”

“Your birthday is coming up,” Ino says, taking up her pruning shears. “Another year older and another year closer to adulthood. You need to be careful who you allow close.”

Sakura frowns at Ino. “Are you concerned by those who are already around me?” she asks, voice tight and cold.

“Not for the reasons you think,” Ino replies. “But yes. You need to step carefully among the clans you allow close to you. I do not believe that they will harm you intentionally, but keep in mind that the clan as a whole may have designs upon your person.”

Sakura thinks on that for a moment, watching Ino prune the borage. “Marriage?” she gasps, voice louder than she expected it to be. She clears her throat, adjusting her expression as she glances around the thankfully empty garden. “You think that marriage is on the table?”

“Yes,” Ino says.

“But we’re still so young,” Sakura says, but it is a token protest at best. 

Even among merchant clans, betrothals happen at a young age. Her parents avoided it, her mother’s original betrothed died in his adolescence, leaving Mebuki free to pursue Kizashi. She fought fiercely for the right to marry him, despite the fact that he did not come of a traditionally lucrative family. They often joked that it was the toughest negotiation of their lives, but there is a kernel of truth hidden within. They fought tooth and nail for the sake of love, which was why Sakura herself is not betrothed.

Not yet, at least.

Her parents want her to be involved in the decision, but marriage is expected of her.

“You know that doesn’t matter,” Ino says drily. “Such negotiations occur among clans as soon as the sex of the child is known. The Aburame are not known for prenatal betrothals, but betrothals in adolescence aren’t unheard of.”

“You think Shibi-ōji will propose that?” Sakura says. “With Torune or Shino?”

Ino shrugs, the motion graceful. “I do not know what the future holds. I just want you to be careful. You have a tendency to give more of yourself than you should. I don’t want you to use yourself up. You may be represented by borage, but you shouldn’t sacrifice yourself.” Ino stands, cupping Sakura’s face with a tenderness that mirrors the way she handled the borage. “There are no plants more valuable than you, Sakura.”

0Sakura stares down at the cipher that she still hasn’t managed to break, trying to figure out its meaning. She has made so little progress on it and yet…

She isn’t willing to give up.

Sakura eyes the second cipher specifically, paying close attention to one word that reoccurs throughout the code the most. It is oddly familiar to her, niggling at something that is just on the tip of her tongue. Sakura just stares down at it, willing the understanding to just occur. 

Of course, it does not, remaining ever elusive.

Sakura sighs, rifling through the books that she has on code in search of inspiration.

Her eyes catch on one in particular, one on animals in a Suna code. One of the words looks oddly familiar.

Pig...

“You need to trap your room.”

Sakura nearly jumps out of her skin, flinching violently as she covers her work. “Celandine!” she exclaims, placing a hand on her chest. “What have I said about sneaking up on me?”

Celandine is seated on her bed, legs crossed as he stares blankly at her. “I did not sneak up on you. I sat upon your bed and called out to you from a respectful distance. I did not tap your shoulder or engage in unwanted physical contact.”

Sakura sighs, touching her brow. She can almost feel the wrinkles threatening to set in. “Next time, knock on the window or the door, however you get in.” She glances to the side, puffing out her cheeks in frustration. “And I do have traps in my room.”

“I will take your advice into consideration and adjust as requested,” Celandine says. “You need better traps; I did not even have to disable the traps to pass them by.”

“I’ll work on it,” Sakura says.

“You need to get better at them now,” Celandine says.

Sakura stares at him, surprised. He has never spoken back to her like this. He didn’t raise his voice or anything, but Sakura can tell he’s getting worked up. “What brought you by today?” she asks, discomfited by the way that Celandine’s black eyes glitter with intent. 

“I came to warn you,” Celandine says, standing lithely.

“Warn me of what?” Sakura asks.

“You need to be more careful,” Celandine says, approaching her. “You are drawing too much attention with too little protection of yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Sakura asks.

Up close, Sakura can see the tightness of Celandine’s jaw and the way his fingers tremble. Sakura reaches out with both hands, one taking his and the other touching his jaw. He flinches but does not move further. Sakura keeps her touch gentle. “What do you mean?” she repeats.

“You are being watched,” Celandine says. “My master wishes--” He cuts off immediately as his entire form shudders in pain. Sakura embraces him, holding him up. “My master wants you.”

Blood trickles from Celandine’s mouth.

“Stop!” Sakura says, panicked by the clear torture speaking brings him. “Don’t say anymore. Don’t hurt yourself further.”

“I must warn you,” Celandine says, determination blazing in his dark gaze. He clings to Sakura, refusing to release her. He will take comfort where he can get it. Sakura holds him in turn, willing to support him for as long as he needs. “You need to get the Sannin to declare you his official apprentice. It is imperative that you publicly receive his support. Do you understand?”

It is so strange to hear Celandine speak in such a monotone voice despite the desperation and pain with which he clutches her.

“I do,” Sakura replies, running a hand down his back. She imitates the movements of her mother, the way her mother soothes Sakura after a nightmare. Slowly, the trembling eases before ceasing entirely. “I will do as you ask, Celandine.”

“Good,” Celandine says. “Good.”

They stay like that, embraced, for longer than either could say.

For the first time in a very long time, Celandine feels...safe.

0Writing this chapter reminded me so much of writing Borage, which is a oneshot that features Sakura, Ino, Shikamaru, and the language of flowers. I returned to some of my favorite flower meanings here because I’m a basic bitch, lol. Y’all should check it out if you enjoy urban fantasy AUs.

[ittakesrain]

Track Your Shit

I sat on the couch in my psychiatrist’s office with my arms crossed and steam billowing out of my ears.

“Are you on cocaine?” he asked without a hint of sarcasm.

“No,” I shot back, completely bewildered but appropriately defensive.

“Then you’re bipolar.”

Yup. That was how I was diagnosed.  And to my memory, that was really the only major piece of information my psychiatrist gave me that day.  There was no supplemental information given to me, no sort of enlightenment or introduction into the all-consuming project that would be managing my difficult and sometimes debilitating condition, and I left the office with what felt like a really random label and a higher dose of Abilify.  I was nineteen years old, I was a chemistry major in college, I’d kicked the hell out of an eating disorder, and I was bipolar. The facts didn’t matter too much. Right?

Over the next several years, I really didn’t hear the word “bipolar” all too frequently, in or out of my psychiatrist’s office, despite the increasingly, uh, intense fluctuations in my moods and energy as well as steadily growing anxiety and irritability. Weird, am I right? For a diagnosis that impacts pretty much all aspects of a person’s life, in one way or another, to not be mentioned nearly enough times? There are more fitting words, but sure, we’ll go with ‘weird.’

By the time I graduated college, I knew my diagnosis was playing a larger role in my life that I originally assumed it would.  I started keeping track of when I took my meds (and with that tried not to miss any doses). I recorded my moods more frequently.  I did some cursory research into my disorder. And I finally started noticing patterns in my cycle and knew to watch out for specific warning signs.  And mind you, doing all of that was a pretty big accomplishment for someone who was given virtually no guidance. Not to mention a medication regime that was significantly lacking.

The first thing I realized was that my episodes often began with feeling “emotionally itchy,” or “like I want to rip my face off” and “jump out of my skin and out of who I am as a person.” Thanks to the knowledge I have now, I can use different language to describe what actually goes on as I inch ever closer to a major episode. I become incredibly irritable and experience what’s called “dysphoric mania.”  I have the racing thoughts and flight of ideas that come with manic episodes, meaning my brain is running at a million miles a minute and I can’t keep myself focused on one idea long enough to think it through, but it’s not what anyone would call a happy feeling (not that mania is to be confused with mere happiness). In my dysphoric state, I have too much energy, so much so that it physically hurts me as it swells from within me and threatens to burst open at any second.  I often cut myself in such a state because I need the assumed and metaphorical emotional release as well as the physical release of endorphins in response to injury.

Then I began to see that if I missed my meds for any period of time longer than a day or two, I felt the effects about two weeks later. If I forgot (or “forgot”) to take my Abilify for let’s say a full week, I’d be in the middle of a relentless and torturous depression in about fourteen days. Sidenote, I shouldn’t have missed ANY days of meds, but lo and behold, I wasn’t exactly warned all too well against it. But to see a pattern, to determine the cause of a specific (and dramatic) dip in my moods, was hugely influential in my life. Not to mention, it brought me to google how the medication I was prescribed actually works. And, spoiler, every single human being who is prescribed any medication at all should be aware of what the fucking medication does and how it works and all of that. Seriously. So important. Turns out Abilify is “long acting” and takes about two weeks to leave my system.

Furthermore, Abilify is a type of drug called an “atypical antipsychotic.” Those types of drugs are frequently used as mood stabilizers. They’re the second generation of drugs that you’ve probably seen being used on dramatic medical shows or movies about psychiatric hospitals that knock people who are acting “insane” out. They’re used as tranquilizers. Haldol is an example of one that works fast and Thorazine is an example of one that works somewhat slower. Those are called typical antipsychotics. Atypicals like Abilify have fewer side effects. They work to influence serotonin (the neurotransmitter sometimes called the “happy molecule”) as opposed to blocking signals from dopamine (the “pleasure and reward” neurotransmitter).

Right. So as you see I’ve become fairly well-versed in the goings-on of impending episodes and the key pieces of information surrounding them. Again, this is phenomenally helpful. But my point is that I should have been given this information from the get-go. I should’ve been prepared and taught, should’ve been armed with education given to me by a human being who knew what the fuck was happening to me and how bad it would potentially get if I didn’t have the fucking said information! I got there myself, and I’m damn proud of myself for doing so. And it still brings me peace of mind and a sense of control to research bipolar disorder, and learn new things about treatments and meds and biochemistry, and to work through my recorded moods and symptoms to find existing patterns or warnings. But for fuck’s sake, why wasn’t I told about the importance of recording the fluctuations or about psychoeducation as a tremendously powerful tool?

Alright alright, not going to continue dwelling on the past and how I was royally screwed (at least not in this particular blog post). Because as I look to the future, I know things will at the very least make more sense. I’ll at least be able to understand this bullshit and from there hopefully combat it better.

Which brings me to a few months ago as I began to embark on a new and more um, intense journey of self-discovery and understanding –which, in turn, is allowing me to feel significantly less dread about my eventual (and inevitable?) next episodes. It started when I wound up in the emergency room for the first time in October 2018 when a depressive episode took a terrible turn for the worse. I was 27 years old and at the end of my rope. Exhausted from years of worsening symptoms and my cries for help going unheard, my begging and pleading remaining unnoticed, I collapsed into chaotic despair.

The good that came from that particular visit to rock bottom was that I subsequently found a therapist (no, I hadn’t been in therapy previously and yes, that was really dumb) who is literally the coolest person ever, in addition to being really fucking good at what she does. And a few months after that, my amazing therapist helped me find a better psychiatrist, and from there we all began the arduous task of getting my act together and trying to stabilize the shitshow of my life.

As it turns out, since I was on a medication that didn’t do much for me for such a long time, my bipolar disorder was able to “mature.” To further develop and overall just get worse. Literally look it up. It’s a known thing that bipolar worsens if left untreated, and I absolutely feel that mine at the very least wasn’t being treated properly. Lucky me.

But since beginning to see my therapist in November and my new medication provider in February, I’ve learned like, so so so much. I know to stop and breathe when I start to get worked up, because I know I have gone for long periods of time without inhaling and exhaling like a functioning human. I know that I fidget around and repeat purposeless motions (“display signs of psychomotor agitation”) because it comforts me when I’m anxious. I know I have issues with control, with the desire to feel safe, with things that aren’t fair.

Also. Insomnia is a huge red flag for me and for the majority of bipolars. It’s both a symptom of approaching mania and a trigger for it. Meaning, when you start staying up all night long, you’ve gotta find a way to get some sleep before it gets worse and leads to an episode. It also means that you can’t voluntarily pull all-nighters (if you can help it) because that might land you in the middle of a manic break as well. And as if that wouldn’t suck enough, a despairing depression would most certainly follow the agitated (hypo)mania.

Alcohol is another one. Now, I’m not huge on drinking. I never partook in any of that before I was of legal age anyway (which is perhaps a testament to my nerdy younger self haha), and once I started drinking, I had trouble getting past the gross taste. I still do. But when I drink as an adult (which I haven’t done in a few months, mind you), I drink to get fucked up. So basically, I drink in a way that’s literally terrible for my bipolar. It’s a cycle, too.  I’ll have a bad day and come home and take five shots of fireball, and I get shitfaced so I have a terrible day the next day. It’s similar to insomnia in that it perpetuates itself and that I’ve gotta be responsible about it.

[On that note, by the way, I should say that maintaining stability involves quite a few key things (such as sleep hygiene, med compliance, the nutrition you fuel your body with, the way you move your body, being mindful and having the ability to focus on breathing, following pre-set routines, your support system, your coping skills and crisis-management tools, and your healthcare professionals…to name a few). It’s imperative to keep up with each thing to prevent all hell from breaking loose.]

I’ve also come to see that, for whatever reason, my major episodes usually have a definitive end but not a clearcut start. As in, I can identify the specific day my depression ends, but the irritability and frenetic energy and aggressive outbursts start out kind of slowly and increase steadily until my moods surrender into despondent melancholy. At this point, I believe the phenomena has to do with my tendency to ruminate and nearly drown in repetitive thoughts. I really struggle with redirecting my brain away from negatives. It could also be because of my coexisting ADHD, but either way, I can’t knock myself out of a bad mood as easily as most people can. So even something small going wrong has the potential to send me spiraling. I can’t think myself out of it. But I can easily make it worse –by ruminating and letting the negatives repeat like a broken record in my head. The decline, therefore, moves like a ball rolling down a ramp. On the opposite end of a “crazy spell” (as I called them way back in the day before I learned all this enlightening information) we have the ball being yanked back up as if it was attached to a string or something. As in, something good can happen that completely “snaps me out” of a major depression. It’s wild to think about. Like, fuck, why can’t more good things happen? Maybe then I’d spend less time wanting to die. I have, however, come to learn how to put myself in the line of things that have the potential to knock me off the crazy train. File that under “bitchin’ coping skills.”

Thanks to psychoeducation, I’ve also come to understand some of my personality traits. I’ve often called myself “volatile.” I fly off the handle fairly quickly, I accelerate from zero to 100 faster than the Kinga Ka roller coaster at Six Flags. My therapist calls it being reactive, and I prefer that phrasing now. My reactivity is part of my personality, but I understand it more clearly by looking at it through the lens of what I know about bipolar disorder. Similarly, in addition to reacting more, I react bigger. I guess some people might call it being dramatic, but again, I prefer to think of it in terms of how my therapist explained it: I’m wired intensely. I feel things in a bigger way. She once said something along the lines of “you can light up a city with your emotions,” and I don’t think she used the word emotions, but that was the gist. My intensity if a part of who I am. And honestly, as much as it can be super annoying and anxiety-producing, it’s not all bad and I choose to label it as a good thing.

Oh, and I pretty much knew this already, but I like to write/type because in my bipolar brain, the thoughts move more quickly than my mouth can move. It causes me to stutter, or stumble over my words, or lose my train of thought because I didn’t say something the right way and I can’t make my mouth move in a way to correct myself because I have fifteen thousand other thoughts flying through my mind and I can’t focus on any of it now. I exhibit pressured speech. Oh yeah, that’s one of my faves.

Thanks to psychoeducation, I’ve learned why I cling to my routines with a death-grip. Doing so is legitimately helpful to people with bipolar. Which is why going on vacation or starting a new job or a new chapter in life can throw bipolar people off in such grand ways. Circadian rhythms are screwy in us. We need to work hard to keep that shit in check. And the sleep-wake cycle and yes, routines, are part of that.

Okay then. With all of this knowledge being attained and a few more trips to rock bottom (and the emergency room) since October 2018…here I am. Still holding on, and doing better at that holding than I have in a while. A month and a half of normalcy without anything rocking the boat? I feel pretty damn good, thank you very much.

Oddly enough, stability can be just as scary for me as the complete and utter chaos of the rest of it. Like, now I have no excuses for not moving forward. Ugh, I have to move forward. But ya know what, I will. Because I’ve got the bipolar symptoms under control at the moment. There’s really nothing stopping me, so I’m sure as hell not gonna stop me.

Keeping records is absolutely fucking necessary. I’ve got no choice but to record my moods, anxiety, and irritability. I’ve gotta take my meds every fucking day and keep track of if I ever miss a day (which I shouldn’t). I need to write down other factors that play a role, such as my periods and when I have therapy and life stressors and stuff like that.

It’s taken, holy shit, so much work to acquire the awareness I currently have. And moving forward will require consistently working on what I know and actively seeking more information. But dude, I’ve come this far. I’m not gonna stop now.

[anneapocalypse]

The Blood Gulch Chronicles and the Tragic Finale

Writing about season 15 a while back got me thinking about RvB protagonists, and I wrote a bunch of additional stuff on the subject that didn’t make it into that post and I wasn’t sure what ultimately I was going to do with it. But there’s nothing like an old gifset of season 5 to make me suddenly need to wrangle a post out of this immediately, so let’s go. ;)

Church is the protagonist of the Blood Gulch Chronicles. Yes, it’s an ensemble story, but that story is driven largely by Church--his actions, his relationships both past and present, even his death(s). Yes, Blood Gulch has a plot. The sequence of events may feel convoluted, unserious, even random at times, but there is a plot.

And one thing that makes Blood Gulch very interesting to me to this day is that it’s a story about failure. Church, as the main character, has one primary goal since season 1: to keep Tex safe. That is what he wants, and that is what he seeks to do: by warning Tucker not to get her involved, by orchestrating her rescue from Red Team when she gets involved anyway, by his (real or perceived) time-travel in an attempt to fix everything, by attempting to protect her from Omega and Wyoming. You can argue that he also has the secondary goal of protecting his teammates, Tucker and Caboose, but Tex is his primary motivator.

The problem? Tex doesn’t want to be protected. She can take care of herself, and she wants to make her own decisions. If she wants to go on the Great Journey, she damn well will. If getting rid of Omega isn’t good enough for her and she wants to kill him too, she damn well will. If she wants to kidnap an alien baby in the name of humanity’s survival? Well.

See the thing is, Church fails.

Sure, Tucker succeeds in killing Wyoming. Tucker’s story in Blood Gulch is one of success, and I don’t think it’s an accident that he develops into a highly-motivated character in his own right, and goes on to become a protagonist himself in later seasons.

But Church? Church fails. Even though Wyoming dies, his plot still succeeds; his story convinces Tex to rejoin the war effort and leave her new friends, and Church, behind. The villain dies, but in a way he still wins. Tex takes Omega back, kidnaps Junior, and takes off in Kai’s dropship which then appears to explode in atmosphere (which, we later learn, is actually Andy the Bomb going off). Church loses Tex, fails at the one thing he has been trying to do since season 1, and the story ends.

For the arc with a reputation as the most lighthearted, humorous, and unserious portion of the Red vs. Blue canon, the Blood Gulch Chronicles is in some ways the grimmest and most hopeless in terms of its resolution. That is its irony. That irony is one of the many reasons I still love it, and still think it carries interest as a story.

And you could argue (and I will) that it is in fact season 5 that sets the precedent for what I will call the tragic finale in Red vs. Blue. There is no RvB arc, no matter how triumphant, that ends without loss.

Though Reconstruction is the culmination of Church’s character arc, Wash is the protagonist of that season as well as the Recollections trilogy as a whole, because it is his motivations and his actions that drive the plot. Reconstruction reconstructs the Red vs. Blue universe in the larger context of Project Freelancer, and it needs a perspective from outside of Blood Gulch to do that, so Wash is the point of view character, not Church.

The conclusion of the Reconstruction arc is primarily the culmination of Wash’s goal: to stop the Meta and expose the abuses of Project Freelancer. But in the process, we also get the culmination of Alpha Church’s story. He learns his true origins, and for reasons that have been much-debated over the years, stays to help Wash defeat the Meta--and is destroyed by the EMP in the process.

It’s really unfortunate that the scene in Reconstruction where Wash convinces Church to stay and confront the Meta with him was cut (you can find it in the DVD/Blu-Ray extras), because it makes it so much clearer why this is the culmination of Church’s character arc and not a senseless death. It is, in Church’s mind, the one way he can make up for his failure to protect Tex. If she needs him now, he can go to her. Maybe he will still fail, and maybe they will die, but at least he can do what he feels he was meant to do. In the best case scenario, they are both ghosts and they carry on. In the worst case scenario--

well, at the very least, he can see her one last time.

And thus, the tragic finale. Even Wash’s victory is only a partial one, and a bitter one; he succeeds in stopping the Meta, but Caboose fails to uphold his end of the plan, keeps the memory unit instead of turning it in, and with no evidence against the Director to exonerate him, Wash lands in prison.

The ending of season 8 is similarly bittersweet, though a bit more optimistic. Once again, the Meta’s defeat makes for a celebrated victory, and Wash’s adoption into Blue Team begins a new chapter in his story. But once again, Church is lost--not forever, but locked down in the memory unit chasing eTex down through the iterations of his reconstructed memories. The tragedy here is twofold: Epsilon Church, in recreating Tex from his memories, is subject to a rude awakening in learning that Tex, as always, has her own plans and ambitions far beyond being his long lost girlfriend. (I’m not saying this is objectively a tragedy; I’m saying that narratively what is, in Epsilon’s mind, a betrayal becomes a personal tragedy that for him mirrors the failure of Alpha Church at the end of season 5.) And Caboose has spent two seasons rebuilding his best friend--only to lose him again.

And so the cycle repeats.

Season 10, I would say, doesn’t necessarily break this pattern but it does turn it on its head--which is appropriate! The protagonist of the Freelancer arc, though often obscured by clumsy writing and POV problems, is undoubtedly Carolina, and the finale is the culmination of her character arc: to break the Church family cycle, and be the one to let go. (And no, I don’t care what the book says, I don’t care what anyone says, this is not a forgiveness ending or a redemption ending for the Director; it is both of those things for Carolina herself, and this is a hill I will die on, but that’s another post.)

This is why it’s Carolina who tells Epsilon he needs to let go, and not the reverse. Because she is the change. She is the one who breaks the cycle of tragedy, of recreation and destruction. And that is why she is the Church who lives on to this day.

There is tragedy at the end of season 10, without a doubt. Particularly in the flashbacks, where Tex fails to save both Alpha and Carolina. In the past, we see the cycle continue. But in the present day, in Carolina’s survival and in the choices she makes, there is hope. The cycle is broken. This is why, even in its clumsy execution, I’ve come to feel that showing the past and present storylines side by side was important, even necessary.

And of course I can’t conclude without mentioning season 13, which closes the book on the Church family story. (From that perspective, season 15 is really more of an epilogue, making at least an attempt to honor Church’s memory while letting him go–though in my opinion it sort of bungles the tragic finale both by excluding Carolina from the Church closure and by grasping for a less-significant character to actually kill off, which makes it not really the note I’m looking to end this essay on!)

But in the Chorus trilogy, as in every preceding finale, there is no victory without loss. Doyle’s sacrifice ties into the Chorus conflict itself and the dynamics of the two sides, and that could be a whole post in itself. Epsilon’s sacrifice carries forward the Church family themes of love and loss and letting go from every previous finale, and mirrors Alpha’s sacrifice in season 6–but this time Church goes with unquestionably full knowledge and full agency, and this time, he goes not chasing an unwilling partner, but instead saving the friends who have accepted him and come back for him, time and again.

And Carolina lives on. The survivor, the scion of the Church family. The one who breaks the cycle--who lets go of the past, and lives.

[asarahworld-writes]

Can't link posts on mobile and Tumblr won't load on my laptop, but this prompt comes from the blog of the lovely @naughtylupine

"Twelve ran into Jimmy Stone once and absolutely obliterated him in an axe battle."

The Doctor was a selfish old man.  Literally billions of years after they had said ‘goodbye’, Rose Tyler would not leave him be.  He was still as hopelessly in love with her as he had been back in his tenth body, the one who had met her for the first time.  The one who had taken her hand the first time.  The one who had kisse- but he refused to allow himself the cathartic torture of reliving those memories.

Which was why he was walking down a street in 2002 London, his Yamaha SGV-800 slung across his back.  The last time he’d played this guitar, he’d brought it to an axe battle in the middle ages.  Tonight, if he was lucky, he’d play it while Rose Tyler was in his view.  Every trip he took into her past was one less moment that he could ever see her again.  Every trip he took into her past was his fix to something he’d become addicted to; and one could only take so many hits over the course of a gigennium that at the same time was fixed to twenty years.  He was old, far older than he’d ever imagined he’d live back at the Academy getting his first regeneration cycle, and he had lived far too many days without her.  And so he allowed himself this, to be selfish.  He’d been wrong before: the Doctor was an addict with a box, not a mad man.

He didn’t know where in London she was.  He’d walk the streets all day, if that’s what it took to get one more glimpse of her.  More often than not, he roamed London for hours.  He didn’t mind it when he didn’t see her – it only meant that he could return to this day again – but… she’d smiled at him once, crossing the square, and the reminder of how brilliant her grin was had been enough for him to keep coming back.  He ducked into a local pub that he’d seen her at before and sat at the bar where he had a clear view out the door.  If this had been any sort of normal situation, he knew that he’d be labelled a stalker.  Hell, if he crossed her timeline more than what was safe there would be more at stake than never meeting Rose Tyler on the fifth of March, 2005.  Those thoughts vanished the moment that the pub door opened and achingly-familiar face walked in.  She was with a young man, not Mickey, the other one before him.  The wanker who had hurt her.  But not yet, he thought wryly, looking jealously at the wide smile on her face.

The Doctor balled his hands into fists under the bar counter as the other man kissed her.  She laughed, playfully pushing him away.  The Doctor told himself that he had no right to be jealous, that Rose Tyler had no idea who he was, that right now she was happy.  The wanker picked up his own guitar, strumming a few poorly-tuned chords, while Rose came up to the bar.  The Doctor turned back to his own drink and downed it, not caring what it was.

“Two beers, please.”

She was beautiful.  Dyed blonde hair, shorter than she’d ever worn it in the TARDIS.  A plain white vest top with jeans, the same outfit she’d worn in Utah.  Her vest top wasn’t quite long enough, leaving a strip of bare skin around her waist.  The Doctor tried to focus on his drink, but how could he possibly ignore the goddess that was beside him?  Especially when it had been so long.

I miss you, he thinks.  He gets a whiff of her cheap perfume and it almost overpowers him, the memories that follow.

He looks at her again, sitting beside the boy with the cheap electric guitar.  The wanker plays what is presumably a song, but the chords follow no patterns and there is no rhythm to be found.  Which is when the Doctor found himself slinging his own guitar over his shoulder, challenging him to an axe battle.  Jimmy looks at him derisively, snorting, “yeah, sure old man.”

Luckily, the bar has a dingy stage.  The mics are broken and the amplifier has too much feedback, but they work.  Jimmy plugs his guitar into the amp, jamming out an A major chord.  The Doctor slightly regrets the challenge as the young man begins to play.  His chords are random and haphazardly chosen.  His rhythm is still nonexistent and the bar’s patrons begin to boo.  He finishes with a loud ‘Fuck off’ to the naysayers and saunters back to where the Doctor and Rose were watching.

“That was really cool, Jimmy.”  Rose’s voice is soft, more timid than the Doctor has ever heard her before.

“Thanks, babe.”  Jimmy says dismissively, only looking at the Doctor, arms crossed defiantly.

The Doctor surreptitiously sonics the sound system to broadcast the backing tracks that he set up in the TARDIS.  As the piano begins, he methodically plays continuous A minor chords.  “I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping,” he sings gently.  A minor turns to F-sharp minor, which becomes F-sharp major seven.  The chords are comfortingly familiar, but the lyrics are yet another sharp reminder of the love he has lost and Rose yet to find.  He lets the final E major chord ring, decaying as naturally as possible.  The gathering crowd applauds him, but he only has eyes for Rose.  Rose, who is hanging on to Jimmy’s arm, a weak smile on her face.

Jimmy wrenches himself away from her, taking the stage forcefully.  The Doctor hops down, light on his feet, and, hesitating only momentarily, takes Jimmy’s place beside Rose.  He looks at her the entire time that the wanker is onstage, feeling his hearts seize as he tells himself that he can never see her again.  Jimmy is off the stage too soon – though the Doctor has tuned out the atrocious melodies to better re-memorize her face.

The soft rock ballad is a stark contrast.  “Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go,” he sings softly.  The song is not difficult, and he looks at Rose the entire time that he is on the stage.  His voice loses some of the coarse edge that is present when he speaks, and he desperately wishes that she knew who he was and what she meant to him.  “For my darlin' I love you and I always will.”  He draws out the second last chord in his singing, creating tension on the word ‘always’, as much to try to tell Rose as to remind himself.  The Doctor plays the final D major chord, and it hits him just how true that statement is.  The bar bursts into applause, but the Doctor quickly hops off the stage.  He’s out the door and almost turned the corner when a hand touches his shoulder.

It’s Rose.  Of course it’s Rose, he thinks blithely.  He swallows hard, before turning to greet her.  “Hello,” he nods, desperately trying to look as though he doesn’t recognize her.

She smiles broadly and the Doctor’s hearts ache.  “That was beautiful,” she says.  “I don’t want t’ pry or anythin’, but… was that in memory of someone?”  When he didn’t answer, she continued, repeating that it was beautiful.

You’re beautiful, he thinks, wishing that he could tell her.  “Thank you,” he manages to reply, reaching into his jacket and pulling out his sonic sunglasses.  His eyes begin to mist and he blinks the water away, wanting his last memories of Rose to be clear.  She smiles again, her tongue poking through in a way that he hadn’t quite remembered and it’s all he can do to stay calm.  She turns to go back into the bar and the Doctor watches after her until the bar door has swung closed.  Guitar on his back, he makes his way back to the TARDIS, where he collapses on the chair on the far side of the Time Rotor.

[snakepointb]

Hiding the truth in jokes: Why it is not funny

There is this favourite joke of mine that a student in China once told me:

Imagine you are leisurely swimming in the sea on a sunny day. Suddenly, you see that you are surrounded by sharks. 

What do you do?

Think for a minute. Seriously, what do you do?

You are swimming in the sea, and then suddenly you see that you are surrounded by sharks.…

Answer (read backwards): .gninigami pots uoY

It appears utterly profane. It is. It is also deeply profound.

For the world of science and scientists the joke would go like this: Imagine there is an objective reality and an objectively existing material universe in which linear causality determine relationships between cause and effect and time is an arrow pointing forward. Imagine this universe is just a random assemblage of physical objects behaving according to constant laws of nature. Imagine this universe and the world we live on are just inanimate matter without consciousness or spirit or anything like that. Imagine that what we call our consciousness is just an aberration, some kind of delusion caused by the electric activity in our physical brains and nerve systems. Imagine that all individual separate physical objects are not connected to each other in any way beyond those that are measurable. Imagine that this material realism is really the way everything is.

Now, suddenly you are surrounded by problems: contradictory theories, research results (in quantum mechanics) that don’t make sense; endless and expanding knowledge, but less and less ability to bring it to use; runaway technology and loss of its social control. Suddenly we are surrounded by climate change, species extinction, resource depletion, growing antibacterial resistance, deforestation, soil erosion, nitrification, epidemics, abject poverty next to ultimate wealth, pollution, over-fishing, obesity pandemics, collapsing ecosystems, collapsing consensus narratives, collapsing economies, collapsing nation-states, and a host of other social, ecological, economical, and cultural crises that together evoke a nightmarishly dystopian zombie-apocalypse vision of the future.

What do you do?

Answer: Yes, you go it. You stop imagining.

Repeat: Stop imagining!

Remember, before this list of problems, we started with paragraph stating the premise: “Imagine…”.

The great unspoken human premise is always this: “Imagine this is real…”.My favourite lines from Thomas Hobbes’ 17th century classic “Leviathan” are these (paraphrased): “When I’m dreaming I consider myself awake. But when I’m awake, I know that I’m not dreaming.

”In other words, when we wake up in the morning and shake the sleep off; after we’ve sorted the few remaining thoughts buzzing around our mind into “real-life memories from yesterday” and “snippets of last night’s dream”, and settle back into waking life, we subconsciously attach the master prefix “Imagine this is real…” to everything that we experience that day, until we lie down again at night and drift off into dream world.

This applies to the religious devotee who says his prayer or gives his offering to his god, the secularist who is happy to wake up in a god-less universe, the paranoid schizophrenic who must live with the people who follow him and monitor his messages and phone calls, the child who plays with her imaginary friend, the soldier who is fighting the enemy of the state, and the scientist who is statistically modelling the spread of COVID-19.

Human brains universally prefix the lines “imagine this is real…” before anything they experience and do in waking life. Most people can’t even switch it off if they want to, for example when they go to see a movie.

We cry when we experience tragedy, clinch our fists from dramatic suspense, shudder from violence and gore, and shriek from surprise, even if it’s all just acting, fake blood, and props. And we know perfectly well that it is, because we’re in a movie theatre. However, we are operating in “waking-life-imagine-this-is-real mode”, so we have physical and measurable responses.

The few exceptions to this universal phenomenon of prefixing are enlightenend sages, philosophers, and artists, in other words, people for whom the questions of reality and imagination become their meditation, their raison d’etre, or their creative expression.

Anyways, to come back to the joke, which is really a joke but it’s also dead serious, the point is that we have vast powers of imagination. We can imagine one world and we can imagine a different world, no joking!

For my part, I would suggest imagining a world that is imbued with spirit, or consciousness, or intelligence, or life, however you want to call it; a world that is both material and measurable as well as immaterial and immeasurable; a world that is both objective (kind-of) and a subjective experience; a world that determines our reality and, conversely, is determined by our reality, described best as a dance, or a cooperation, or a living, adaptive, mutually negotiated relationship; Imagine a world that is not random, but that follows patterns and orders, some of which we can understand and visualise, and others that transcend our perception. Imagine a world that is the embodiment of the intelligence inside nature, which is reflected in all natural phenomena, including those that we define as life, those that we define as ecological or planetary processes, for example the carbon, water, nitrogen, and many other cycles, and those that don’t fit into our mutually exclusive categories of life and death, such as viruses. Imagine that the human consciousness is not an aberration or a random occurance, but the “logical” outcome of a conscious universe, like Alan Watts said: “An apple tree ‘apples’, and a universe ‘peoples’”, suggesting to use a verb to describe the apple tree rather than a noun. In other words, an apple grows from a tree not randomly, but because the idea of an apple is integral to an apple tree, and because apples aid in propagating the idea of apples and apple trees. Conscious humans (and all sentient beings) are not a random phenomenon in the cosmos, but reflect the tendency of a conscious (or living) universe to propagate consciousness. Finally, imagine that everything is connected with each other, through time and space, that, in fact, time and space, are our (biocentric) attempts to map the connections and relationships between disparate seeming things. Imagine further that humans are rather blind and ignorant little animals in a world they largely cannot understand because most of it is beyond their perception. There’s a whole lot more you could imagine and details you could add, but I’ll stop here. I think you get the point.

The point is this:

It’s time to stop imagining. It’s time to begin imagining. A better world; Reality 2.0 A #New Story.

The end.

Interactive part.

Self assessment: On a scale from 1-10, where 1 represents ”not at all” and 10 represents ”completely”, how well do you relate to the messages conveyed in this text?

Answer: ______

Answer Key:

8-10: Congratulations! You are definitely part of the vanguard. You have the privilege and share in the joy of being part of a bright and unwritten future. You are a cocreator and important agent in exploring this novel and exciting paradigm. Unfortunately, you are stuck in a rather backward and repressive present together with the rest of us.

5-8: You are on the right path. Being critical to existing dogma is a start. Being open to new and unsettling ideas shows your courage and reflects your passion for exploration and adventure. Find likeminded people and travel the road to the new story with good and loyal companions.

3-5: Having read this far shows that you are a true intellectual. You use your mind like a parachute: you know it needs to be open for optimal results. You have perhaps not yet stumbled over key thinkers or certain critical literature. I suggest you take a look at Thomas Kuhn’s “Structure of Scientific Revolutions”, all books by Fritjof Capra, “Changing Minds, Shifting Worlds” by Jeremey Hawyard, “Biocentrism” and “Beyond Biocentrism” by Robert Lanza, “New Dark Age” by James Bridle, and many others.

1-3: You like to stand on solid ground and think in terms of tangible and time-tested concepts. Thank you! Without people like you, the world would be a mess. However, you also realise the importance of challenging your thinking. If you seek further challenge, read up on the concept of “paradigms”, in science and culture. You could continue to read about challenges to the Cartesian paradigm and read “Climate Change – A New Story” by Charles Eisenstein. In addition, seek other literature (see above) and continue reading people who challenge your thoughts.

1-10: Continue to hide the truth in jokes. Don’t hide the truth in jokes. It doesn’t matter. Wherever it is, it won’t remain hidden for long.

E&OE

[mikazukikannagisjourney]

Why is the law of attraction not working for me?

I have been trying out this Law of Attraction stuff for about 15 months now, and if you know what it is or have heard about it, and you've been trying so hard but not getting any great, significant, or even any kind of result, I hope this checklist that I made through trial and error can help you in any way. (BTW I'm not a guru or anything, I'm just a fangirl trying to find my way through life, probably like what you're doing right now.)

Part 1. Straight to the Point Reasons

A. Subconscious reasons

1. Programmed contradicting beliefs - Your conscious wants moolah, but your subconscious actually thinks it's bad/evil/ungodly/not good, and because the subconscious rules a person's life, unless your conscious and subconscious gets to an agreement, your moolah won't be running to yah. OK, that was a bit eww but you get the message.

2. Traumatic events - You want love in your life but again, you may have subconscious issues such as fear of abandonment or rejection, which prevents intimacy or even reaching out to other people. Don't be angry at your subconscious, it just wants you to feel safe and secure.

3. Unresolved issues/dilemmas - The combination of the first two points. These two pretty much stick to a person like glue, and end up as causes for anxiety, fears, worries, or the other stuff if not removed or uprooted or healed and replaced with healthier and more beneficial ideas. These cause a person to keep repeating the same sh*t even if the people around are different.

4. Not resolving and managing the above - This is pretty much the bottom line of the whole thing. The problems and issues keep piling up, the unresolved things keep getting pushed back in the back-burner, and the person becomes even more confused. The really sucky part is that these things have pretty much made the subconscious mind as the entire estate or condominium complex, so they’re even harder to remove. They also get really dense and even mix and mash up together so the lines between each type of trauma gets blurred, making it even harder to identify and remove each causal agent.

B. Genetics and Family

1. DNA embedded with negative destructive events - You may not believe it but apparently, epigenetically-speaking you can inherit traumatic and destructive events through the DNA. It can even change the personalities of the offspring from their parents. You can try looking up an episode of Science View from NHK World about cat breeds that changed only one base pair in their DNA through random viral infections and their surroundings. These cats differed greatly from other cats in  terms of disposition/personality and behaviors. Legit stuff. I’m a geneticist, so trust me on this stuff.

2.  Severe traumatic cellular memories - In relation to the previous point, because DNA serves as the template for all of the cellular processes, if this template gets the sh***y treatment, then all of the cell’s processes would consequently be just as sh**y. I kid you not, it’s called mutation. And because cells multiply, this DNA-embedded trauma also gets multiplied and pretty much in the long run would create one large being with so much trauma embedded in the cells. It would take a lot of mutation in the course of cell division cycles to even move the change into something else.

3. Familial history of negativity cycles - OK so by combining the two hereditary factors from above, along with the environmental factors of heredity and genetics - let’s call them stimuli or rather, forces that force animals to evolve over time - by instilling behavioral patterns and making sure that these things would be remembered by the offspring from their parents, and then letting this cycle to continue, well, it further makes the removal of the subconscious stuff harder. It’s pretty much encoded in the DNA, so even if without consciously thinking about it, the sh**y stuff keeps happening. Think migratory animals - how could they know where and when to start to move? The secret is that they just know, and they follow their instincts. Also, their ancestors already had the sense to imprint the information in their own DNA, and when these get passed on they just let these instincts move their bodies, knowing fully that these things can be trusted. It works well for animals, but why not humans? Simple, because we have destructive info along with the good ones, so it’s harder to decide. And let’s be honest, intuition is a skill that gets shoved at the back so it’s a bit sad, really. If there’s any consolation at all, you can find your way back into the intuitive side of your life. I don’t have the answers for that though, but there are many sources out there, and I’m sure at least one method will do you wonders.

C. Other Factors

1. Not fully trusting that the law works - If you have already figured out that the first two factors were not the ones to blame, then you maybe just need to trust more? Trust is a hard choice, but learning it and applying it is the best thing to do.

2. Impatience/ Setting an expiry date -  Sometimes things get delayed. Don’t try rushing things, there are reasons for delays or even weirder, things that get fast-forwarded or something of that sort. Just trust. Otherwise, you’ll seem like a whiny and needy person from the perspective of Source, and let’s just say that in any kind of realm, neediness and whining a lot aren’t attractive traits.

3. Doing nothing (spiritual or self-improvement) - In the event that you haven’t figured out that the first two factors were of great significance, well, here you go. It means getting into a higher vibration, letting go of excess baggage, or even baggages altogether. Or if you don’t want that or can’t handle that yet, while you wait for your manifestation do something while you wait. Or even better, take at least one step in reaching your goal. Just do stuff and don’t dwell or you’ll sound impatient and needy. Also, see above point.

4. Being ungrateful - This is pretty much a virtue that has been taught across all places, times, belief systems, and why is it a persistent lesson to be learned? Simple really, because being grateful means that a person is open to receiving more because this person sees the goodness in all things. In addition, being grateful also gives people extra insight to better understand other people, allowing them to give better help to these people. I believe people call it Service to Others. But don’t get me wrong, Service to Self is not an entirely evil motivation, because the truth of the matter is, before a person can give his or her self for others, the self must be taken care of first. This feeling of care and love for what the self truly needs (material or not) is what gives further understanding and appreciation, in turn making a person grateful for having the needs fulfilled. Of course, if people could not learn gratefulness and just get sucked into pure greed for the self, well, that’s where Service to Self becomes a downfall. Bottom line is that being grateful for even the little things can prepare a person to be just as grateful or maybe even more grateful for the bigger things.

5. Inability to choose seeing the bright side of things - In connection with the points that came before this one, of course allowing one’s self to be always be down on the dumps and not seeing the silver lining in things will not bring forward the nice things a person wants. And because law of attraction works by pulling in what you think most about, well.. Not choosing to see the sunny side of life will definitely put in more of the dismal stuff and pull it all in. Take note though, I’m saying CHOOSING and not merely doing things SUBCONSCIOUSLY, since people have a free will to choose what to feel, annoying as it may sound. Also, the fact that some people actually WANT to be happy but can’t because of actual stuff like depression or grief that can’t be expressed fully means that these people are actually trying their best but because they are bogged down by these issues heavily, it will only be up to them to decide if and when they had enough and start doing things to make their conditions better, even if through baby steps. Just finding at least one small thing that makes you smile should be a good starting point.

6. Not living life to see that there is more to it than just attracting your wants and desires - If life feels like it has no purpose, well, however you want to think about it, you are probably right. Because truth be told, if people find purpose in their lives, that’s when the real magic happens. Which then brings opportunities to people that help enrich their lives. The truly rich people are those who live their purpose and attract the nice things along the way, with no pressure or not harming anybody along the way. Contrast this to people that society defines as corrupt or evil - they mostly do selfish things just to get what they want. You’ll see these people in the news as the thieves, murderers, bringers of chaos, corrupt government officials or members, disgraced CEO’s... well you get the picture. And even if they were never caught, the legacy of their deeds seep down to their descendants. Also, see the previous stuff in this post. 

Part 2. What can I do about it?

A. Resolve all subconscious-related issues

1. Going within - healing the subconscious and integrating it with the conscious mind. Because the subconscious can be our powerful ally, we need to chat with it, have better understanding in what it knows, what it thinks about, and what it needs to release so our conscious desires can merge with what the subconscious wants. Otherwise, the affirmations you keep listening to will eventually stop working, because the subconscious could not give a crap about reprogramming.

a. Shadow work - identify all rejected parts of self. These include fears, phobias, sources of anxieties, people you hate with good reasons or not, things that make you queasy, all the crap that needs to be taken care of. It’s hard to believe that what you hate are parts of you, but these are indeed parts of you because you associate with them, even if it’s negative-association. Once you understand why these ideas appear, then it becomes easier to manage them whenever they appear to trigger you to be angry or annoyed or fearful. And that’s why we have the science of psychology/psychiatry, to help people heal the non-physical issues.

b. Regression to identify all childhood traumas and resolve + integrate them - As mentioned above, learning why these wounds keep popping up to ruin lives are just as important, because again, these are memories that are deep-seated, probably genetic, and must therefore be resolved in order to set them free. Counseling sessions and other stuff from the psychoanalytic world can be quite helpful here too.

c. Check for any recurring familial themes, address the destructive ones, forgiveness - see above points.

d. Identify all limiting beliefs, assess why these exist, then resolve + integrate - again, see above points

2. Use subliminal programming/energy healing - These things are pretty much straightforward

a. Program the subconscious mind to release all negativity/things that no longer serve

i. Use subliminal audio tracks while sleeping

ii. Meditate while chanting healing mantras

iii. Undergo regression therapy

iv. Undergo energy healing sessions (like Reiki) or DNA reprogramming/ Cellular memory clearing

B. Other additional practices for improvement

1. Trust that the law works

2. Be thankful for everything you have

3. Find the bright side/funny side of things

4. Do away with the duality nature of things - Remember that nothing is purely one-sided, like even the blackest object can actually reflect some light. If you don’t believe me, try finding it in YouTube: Brightest flashlight vs blackest object. That, for me physically proved that duality is a big, messy junk. Besides, you can choose to be on both sides by knowing both sides through and through. It’s different from being on the fence because that just means that a person is scared to choose a side and not rock the boat. But, by knowing both sides to a T, and not giving a rat’s ass to people who BOO you for not choosing a side, this gives you a greater power on choice, and that helps you take back your own power. Simply saying that you ARE both sides can make people angry at you, by projecting to you the thing that they cannot or do not want to be. OWN that strength.

5. Believe in true unconditional love - This may sound hard, especially for people who only know that love requires something back or something in return. I know, cause I have been there, and I’m still trying to change that kind of destructive point of view. But it’s possible, and to be honest, after raising other living creatures that I really have no use for, I guess that’s how unconditional love feels. Maybe, I don’t know, I’ll do my best to learn more about that. But once that first step happens, that’s when the healing really does begin. All snotty and painful and achy healing, which can take months and years but the lightening of the load and burden really brings in the light. For me, at least.

6. Feel deserving of the stuff you want - If crooks can feel deserving about the stuff they steal from other people without any kind of remorse, then why should you feel undeserving of many things if you’re doing it in the best and most upright way possible? Seriously, you are a beloved being that deserves to be happy and joyful and feel loved and giving love, and you deserve just as much nice stuff as other crooks or the unscrupulous ones, so don’t feel bad for people that get what they want through atrocious ways. BE that high-vibrational being who feels deserving of your wants, to have your needs fulfilled, and be sure to tread along the path that is for the highest good of yourself. When that happens, you’ll find that the nice stuff you want may not only be within your reach, but you’ll also get the upgraded stuff too. Like saying YES to free juice refills and then you get a large-sized drink with your order. That happened to me once, I had no idea the refills were free if you buy the large drink. Also, what’s magical about feeling worthy is that you actually get some nice stuff yourself. So that in turn gives you time to be truly grateful and thankful, because the thing you wanted deeply came through in the most magical way.

7. Share and give to others, but only if you truly feel generous and caring enough. -  Don't fake it, it's OK to serve yourself as long as you're doing it for healing so that you can be a lot more caring and generous to others in the future. Share what feels right. And don’t let other people force you to share what you do not want. That’s how clashes and problems happen, when people start taking stuff from other people because they can’t get the stuff themselves. 

8. Establish healthy boundaries - If it doesn't feel right, walk away. Set your ground straight with assertion. It's your birthright. Also, see the previous note.

9. Live one day at a time. -  It's OK to think back or ahead, but don't dwell on it too much or your day will soon be over before you know it. Plus, once you reap the fruits of living a happy and joyful life, you’ll be looking back on the days when you didn’t try to live life to the fullest and with full enjoyment. Those days sped by and a sense of loss can be felt, like wondering where all the time went and gone to?

Well I hope this long-ass post (which I was only able to finish after a few months because I had to test the waters first) gave you some sort of idea on how to make use of the Law of Attraction, or the other Laws of the Universe for that matter. I am only sharing to you what I have experienced for the time that I stumbled upon the Law of Attraction, and boy oh boy it wasn’t easy as pie. I’m still trying to learn more about being in touch with my true self, and connecting to Source and the Divine Realms, and it feels like this can take my entire lifetime to figure out. So don’t feel scared or annoyed when things don’t go as how you planned, because sometimes things happen for a reason. Just smile and trust, knowing that you are loved by the universe and all its sub-atomic particles combined.

I wish you well in your journey of self-discovery, healing, and purpose. Thank you so much for reading and taking time to look at my thoughts, and may the Source be with you.

[hollywoodjuliorivas]

JOURNAL REPORTS: RETIREMENT Why You Should Write a Memoir—Even if Nobody Will Read It Among the psychological benefits: It helps people make sense of their lives When a person sits down to write the story of his or her life, there can be unexpected benefits. Pencie Huneke, above, refers to writing her memoir as “an exercise of self-affirmation.” PHOTO: ZACK WITTMAN FOR THE WALL STREET JOURNAL By Lisa Ward Nov. 10, 2017 10:08 a.m. ET 4 COMMENTS Is it worth writing a memoir if no one will ever read it? Millions dream about spinning their life story into a best-seller. Most never get past the dreaming part, much less the first chapter. But there are potential rewards other than riches and fame for those who try. According to psychologists and researchers, writing a memoir—even just for personal consumption—can help the author review and make sense of his or her life, come to terms with traumatic events and foster personal growth. In fact, some of the therapeutic benefits may be lost if the writer thinks about too large an audience—or even a readership greater than one. The story can become less authentic. And there are other potential pitfalls to writing your life story. Writers can be thrown into despair if they have trouble reconciling past failures or placing traumatic events into a larger context. “It really depends on the type of stories people tell to make sense of their lives,” says Dan McAdams, a psychology professor at Northwestern University. People who can construct cohesive life narratives—where there are common threads and one event leads to the next—are likely to benefit from writing a memoir, he says, while those who view their lives as a series of random, unrelated events are not. His research has found that life narratives are especially beneficial if they focus on redemption and overcoming adversity. The Mental Mistakes We Make With Retirement Spending The mind-set and habits that work so well when people are building their nest egg can damage their quality of life—and investments—in retirement. CLICK TO READ STORY Love at First Sight: Retiring in Italy The bureaucracy and four-hour lunch break can be maddening. But the kindnesses, beauty, food—and price—can’t be beat. CLICK TO READ STORY When ‘Enough’ Doesn’t Have to Mean ‘More’ Essayist Robbie Shell writes about giving up the relentless pursuit for more and finding contentment in retirement. CLICK TO READ STORY New Procedure Looks Promising for Men With Enlarged Prostates The minimally invasive treatment uses steam to kill cells and shrink the prostate. CLICK TO READ STORY Is There Really a Retirement-Savings Crisis? Two experts look at the same data—and come to very different conclusions. CLICK TO READ STORY Recommended New Books for Those Who Are Grieving Sheryl Sandberg and other authors offer strategies on how to move forward after suffering a loss. CLICK TO READ STORY MORE IN ENCORE Positive light In a memoir by Pencie Huneke, two key themes are resilience and gratitude. Now 84 years old and living on a barrier island near Venice, Fla., Ms. Huneke raised her five daughters alone after her husband left. Her memoir describes the “blur of misery” she felt in the early days of their rupture. But her story, Ms. Huneke now says, ultimately puts the experience in a positive light: She made close friends, enrolled in a financial-management course and met the “love of her life.” She also forgave her ex. “He and I have actually become friends. How lucky for all of us,” she wrote, in one of the few extracts she shared with a reporter. The act of writing about traumatic or difficult events can reduce stress, lessen depression and improve cognitive functioning, according to researchers. Several studies have even shown such writing to improve the function of the immune system. Psychologists believe that by converting emotions and images into words, the author starts to organize and structure memories, particularly memories that may be difficult to comprehend and accept. “You can’t simply dump an entire experience on a piece of paper,” says Joshua Smyth, distinguished professor of biobehavioral health and medicine at Pennsylvania State University. Through writing, he says, the memory of the experience can be broken down into small parts, allowing the event to be more easily processed and then laid to rest. A hidden death Susan Mayall, now 84 and living in Livermore, Calif., says she tried for years to write about her childhood in Britain during World War II, years that included frequent German bombing raids on her neighborhood. Much of her struggle, she says, involved coming to terms with her mother’s behavior. Early in the war, in 1941, Ms. Mayall’s father, an interpreter in the Royal Navy, died at sea, but her mother never spoke of his death to the children or otherwise acknowledged it until the war ended. Ms. Mayall shared early drafts of her memoir with her brothers, who objected to her harsh evaluation of her mother. “I struggled all my life to understand my mother’s reactions,” Ms. Mayall says. What finally put things in perspective, she says, was writing about a particular memory: the moment her mother read the letter from the Royal Navy about her husband’s death. Ms. Mayall in her memoir describes seeing the letter, without explicitly knowing at the time what it said, and witnessing her mother’s reaction: “She tears [the letter] open, and starts to read. Then she leans forwards and her hands go up over her face. She’s shaking—I can feel her.” Ms. Mayall says she developed more empathy for her mother as she continued to work on the memoir over the years. In the final version, she acknowledges her mother’s bravery and describes in detail what it was like to raise four children on a meager income in wartime conditions. When writing about past traumas, the people who gain the most from the experience are those who tend to acknowledge their own problems but can also see other people’s points of view. Over the course of writing, their general perspectives about their topics evolve, says James W. Pennebaker, a psychology professor at the University of Texas at Austin. Making new connections between events in the writer’s life is key, he says. There are risks. Writing to uncover a deeper meaning in one’s life often requires brutal honesty or authenticity, a sort of self-disclosure that could either be hurtful to other people or cast the author in a negative light. If a writer starts repeating the same topic incessantly or becomes increasingly angry and bitter, it is best to stop, Dr. Pennebaker says. Some such feelings can’t be helped. “Writing about upsetting experiences can provoke negative emotions,” says Dr. Pennebaker. “It’s much like going to a sad movie. Most people report getting back to normal in an hour or so. If a person is living with a negative experience, they are probably feeling bad much of the time. The writing helps to get them out of that cycle.” Writing a memoir can also help authors re-evaluate how they want to live for their remaining years, says Susan Krauss Whitbourne, professor emerita of psychological and brain sciences at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. The exercise will sometimes reveal to the writer patterns of behavior that were—or are—harmful. Past battles When Paul Wortman, professor emeritus of psychology at Stony Brook University in New York, started analyzing and writing about his life and career, he says he discovered that he had a problem with authority figures. His short temper and past battles with department chairs, he says, were the product of his relationship with his father. Dr. Wortman swore to change his ways. He ended up revising his memoir at his wife’s request, after she read it and became uncomfortable with his idea of sharing it with an extended group of friends. Through careful editing, Dr. Wortman says, the message stayed the same, but some of the details were left out. Making changes based on who will read the finished product reveals another truth about memoirs: There is a huge difference between writing a memoir for yourself and writing it for an audience. By writing for others, the author may be tempted to omit details or even change the story, compromising the process for the final product. Also, it may be disappointing if very few people take the time to read the memoir. Still, sharing a memoir in limited circles can be therapeutic, especially if there is a receptive audience. Sharing can strengthen social ties and help friends and family members understand who the writer is and how he or she came to be that way. The process can also help validate the writer’s experiences and even break ageist stereotypes, says Susan Bluck, a psychology professor at the University of Florida. A child or grandchildren may be surprised to learn their grandparent hitchhiked across the country, Dr. Bluck says, adding, “It feels good when someone is excited about your story.” Ms. Huneke, in the introduction to her memoir, discusses why she chose to leave a written legacy for her immediate family. Her memoir, beyond a few excerpts, hasn’t been shared with anyone else: “Perhaps this is an exercise of self-affirmation, that one’s existence has been worthwhile and possibly even memorable,” she wrote. “Or does it have a higher purpose, to fill in gaps for future generations who, one hopes, might care and even enjoy it? Then again, maybe it is only a desire to explain to one’s children just why one is the way one is. It might even be interesting for them to identify characteristics in themselves they may have inherited!” Ms. Ward is a writer in Mendham, N.J. She can be reached at reports@wsj.co

[davidowensblog-blog]

David Owens - Asleep Again

Pop Songs That Will Make Your Car Audio Burst With Life

When it comes to writing pop songs, there's a general formula that's used for the song structure. However, before we approach the particular arrangement of a pop tune, it is important that you know the purpose of a pop tune because it assists in making the most of the construction.

Goal of a pop tune

The purpose of the pop song is to get the song hooked to listeners whenever possible and to keep the listener stay interested as long as possible in a period of about 3 to four minutes. This is the age of consumerism in which people purchase, then get exhausted, then buy , then get bored again, and so forth etc. It's a cycle. The same goes for pop music today. Folks listen from finding exceptionally ear grabbing music, then get bored, so they hear new songs, they then get bored . Hence that the pop song basically requires three things: familiarity, variety, and a hook.

Structure

So with understanding that we need the tune we all write to hook onto listeners, how does that translate into the structure of a pop song? We must figure out what doesn't work first, then lead up to what works and what works well.

Here's a question. Would a song that was all verses work as a pop song? I don't think so. Why wouldn't it work? It wouldn't work since you would get bored of the David Owens - Asleep Again song quickly. The verses could be catchy, but if there isn't anything to change this up, it is going to get old quick. So what do we do? Add another section.

So the lesson here is to bring variety to the song and stray away from having the song too mundane.

But on the flip side, having too much variety wouldn't work either. For instance, if you introduced a new section every time without repeating a section, it would be hard to take in the song. Let's say I had a song that had the structure A - B - C - D (each letter represents an individual section.

For the listener to acquire some feeling of familiarity, he or she will have to hear the song again probably for a couple times even if each section was catchy. But if you had a song that reintroduced sections like A - B - A - B, the listener can gain familiarity within one or two listens. But keep in mind that the song has to keep the listener interested with the hook.

The general structure of a pop song is A - B - A - B - C - B aka verse - chorus - verse - chorus - bridge - chorus. This works so well because not only does it add a feeling of familiarity by repeating sections A and B, there is a sense of variety with the accession of section C. Then familiarity is reinforced with keeping a feeling of freshness by ending the section with B. This structure of a pop song is effective when the hook is carried in the chorus section where lyrics stay the exact same each time the section is sung.

A pop song comes from pop music which is typically understood to be a commercially recorded music. It is frequently driven towards the youth and it is composed of relatively short, simple songs but with eccentric technological innovations. It's Meant to encourage listeners to dance with the music or it uses beats, percussions or rhythms that are dance-oriented.

The goal of songwriting is to make listeners get hooked to the song as much as possible in a span of 3 to 4 minutes. A pop song basically needs familiarity,variety, and of course, a hook.

The critical elements to keep in mind in writing a pop song are melody, chord progression, beat and rhythm, genre and fashion, concept, "hook", lyrics, song sections, arrangement, and length. These are the common threads that make a song successful.

In the making of a song in this genre, a pop songwriter ought to be able to bring in variety to the song but being conscious not to put too much selection. If a song had a structure, A-B-C-D, with each letter representing an individual section in the song, the listener should find that familiarity as the song progresses. However, the song must also get the listener's attention and get him hooked.

The general structure for a pop song which is verse - chorus -verse - chorus - bridge - chorus or A - B - A - B - C - B. Even though the repeating sections A and B increases the listener's familiarity of the song, the addition of C section gives variety to the song. The structure is quite effective since it has been test-proven by many great pop icons like Michael Jackson, Madonna, and Prince. The hook is carried since the lyrics remain the Exact Same whenever a Specific section is sung from the singer.Other Kinds of pop song structures are:

If you would like to know how to write a pop song, let me first tell you that there's not one single set way to writing a pop song. I am pretty certain that the songwriters who've had their songs played on the radio did not write their songs with the exact same exact strategy. If that was the case, we might get a deeper "every song sounds the same" problem.

The following is just one of numerous ways in which you can write a song.

1) Song Structure

The very first thing you might want to start off with is the song structure. For instance, a number of pop songs use the format verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorus or even a variation of the pattern. A variation could be necessary in case you have a essential lyric that should be fit into the song to complete it or maybe you feel like the song is too brief. An illustration of a variation is Jay-z's 'Empire State of Mind' where an additional verse and chorus is included. The song arrangement goes verse-chorus-verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorus.

When adding additional verses or choruses, make sure that the song does not get too long. I count any song over 5 minutes as a long song.

2) Lyrics

Lyrics in pop songs should be relevant to popular culture. What's popular in our culture? It's whatever you see on TV, movies, and even in other songs. Songwriters are definitely influenced by other songwriters' songs.

There's really an unlimited amount of themes you can use. Eminem raps about his real life experiences, Lady Gaga sings about the celebrity life, and everything else is about sex, drugs, and rock & roll :)

When writing a pop song, the lyrics should fall into a general structure. You want to set a specific number of lines for each song section. As an Example, you can set your verse to have four lines, the chorus to have four lines, and the bridge to have six lines. If you would like, you go as far is setting the amount of syllables.

3) Chords

Many pop songs share the same chord progressions or patterns. A very popular one is I - V - vi - IV. (If you want an explanation of the Roman numeral numbers and examples of popular chord progressions and popular songs that use them, you can find an explanation at songwriters123.com) This pattern in the key of 'G Major" would look like this: G - D - Em - C.

You can use the exact chords for your verse and chorus if your melody and lyrics contains enough variety. If you feel as though your melody and lyrics of your verse and chorus are too similar using the same chords, you should change the chords to one of the sections so the song may breathe with a feeling of variety.

4) Melody

You can now write your melody to your lyrics. When you're coming up with a melody for a pop song, you want to make sure you have a 'hook'. A hook is a melody line that is painfully difficult to get out of your head. Usually, the hook is used in the chorus.

One word of advice- do not make your entire song the hook. When you start off with a really catchy verse, it actually takes away the bang from your chorus. It's like that saying "You know what is good only because you know what is bad". I sort of reworded it, but you get the point.

These four steps aren't the "standard" of writing a song. It's just 1 way. It is possible to start writing a song by having a random melody stuck in your head (which could potentially be the hook of your chorus). Or maybe you wrote what you thought a brilliant set of lyrics that may be a prospective verse to a song and you build from there. Be creative and have a blast writing your song.

Among the greatest ways to understand how to play easy pop songs on guitar is to simply make a list of some of your favourite songs which you think might be within your grasp, then find out the chords. It really is as simple as that to get going.

The internet is an amazing tool and takes a lot of the hard work out of trying to figure out the chords. All you need to do is Google the song you'd like to play and see what comes up. Chances are you already know all the chords, but should youn't it's no huge thing. The whole point about learning an instrument is to improve. If there are some chords you've not come across before then have a go at learning them.

If you're a bit impatient and can't quite get the hang of them, just move onto the next song on your list. You can always come back to the tricky ones later. I often discover that things that seem difficult the first time you try them, somehow seem easier the following day. It's almost as if your hand and brain take in the new shapes overnight and the next time you try it, things seem much easier.

You will be amazed by how easy many songs are. There are plenty out there which have only 3 chords. Sweet Home Alabama is a clear one (D, C and G all the way through). Lou Reed apparently once said "One Chord is fine. Two chords is pushing it. Three chords and you are into jazz." Now that may not be wholly accurate but you can really go a very long way with just a couple of option chords under your belt. Pink Floyd's 'Wish You Were Here' has 5 chords, but they are all simple to play open chords without needing to use barre chords. (C, D, Am, G, using a little Em in the middle)

If you're able to master most of the simple open chords (C, D, G, F) and their minor versions, you are going to be in a great place to begin. You then are able to explore 7ths, minor 7ths etc.. Barre chords are a bit tricky when you first start but when you've built up some strength in your hand they will become easier. What's more, they'll open up a whole new world of chords to you and allow you to play pretty much any song you can think of. There are so many easy pop songs to play on guitar that you ought to be able to build up quite a repertoire in no time in any way.

When you get going, the next step is to play together with your chosen song. This can either be the original version of the song or among the many 'learn to play' videos out there online. In the event you chose easy pop songs to play on guitar you'll also develop your ear the more songs you learn. After a while you might find that you could work out the chords yourself as you start to recognise familiar chord sequences that are used over and over again in countless songs.

The very first time you hear it, it's fantastic. Even the third time and the seventh. But after twenty-two times? This little song has come to be the annoying repeating track in your head as you wheel the trash to the curb or go to pick up your mail. Come On! Can't you guys play anything else? They're playing it in Walmart. And if it comes on the radio now, you change the station. You're embarrassed that you actually downloaded the cd. The Pop Song.

Did the audio change? Did the lyrics change? Nope, still the same little song. It's just become Common.

So let's say you're a painter. You've just had one of those great experiences where the painting painted itself - you were in the flow. You nailed it. Terrific composition. Values and color are perfect. You know from experience that it's very likely to sell readily. All of your painting buddies assure that this one is as good as sold. And you're considering making a print of this puppy. Scan it and print on demand... No telling how many you can sell...

Now let's say you're a collector. You've been around art. You've bought quite a bit. You've developed a good eye. You see a painting in a gallery window - great composition, values and color are perfect. Well done. Price is inside your comfort zone. You go inside - and there's the exact same darned image hanging on the wall! One of them is a reproduction and it makes no difference which one. As a collector you don't spend buy an image to get exactly what anyone else can have, too. Imitation may be flattery, but reproductions would be the kiss of death. For all you know, Walmart might have some of these in their dorm room furniture aisle.